


One of Your Kind

by whichclothes



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-24
Updated: 2010-04-24
Packaged: 2017-10-09 03:00:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 44,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/82312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whichclothes/pseuds/whichclothes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Several years post-NFA, Angel investigates a series of killings. Is Spike the culprit or a victim?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As promised (threatened?) this is the prologue to a fairly dark Spangel fic. The fic is complete and I'll begin posting daily on Monday. It has 10 chapters plus the prologue and an epilogue. Banners and icons by the incomparable[](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/profile)[**blondebitz**](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/)!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[one of your kind](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/one%20of%20your%20kind), [spangel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spangel)  
  
---|---  
  
_**One of Your Kind, Prologue**_  
**  
Title: **One of Your Kind   
**Chapter:** Prologue   
**Pairing:** Spike/Angel   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Warnings:** non-con, torture, angst, language, m/m   
**Summary:** Several years post-NFA, Angel investigates a series of killings. Is Spike the culprit or a victim?   
**Author's Note:** As promised (threatened?) this is the prologue to a fairly dark Spangel fic. The fic is complete and I'll begin posting daily on Monday. It has 10 chapters plus the prologue and an epilogue. Banners and icons by the incomparable[](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/profile)[**blondebitz**](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/)!

 

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/0005khkx/)  
---  
  
**  
PROLOGUE**

 

“Well, is it one of yours?”

Angel flicked a glance upwards in annoyance. “One of mine?”

“I mean—this killing. Was it done by one of…your kind?”

Angel glared at the detective and then knelt to examine the body more carefully. The girl had been young. Late teens, maybe. And, judging by the remains of her clothing, she’d been a prostitute. Denim shorts several sizes too small. Tight red camisole top, sheer enough to see through. Black ankle boots with stiletto heels. The girl hadn’t been dead very long, but the corpse stank. Probably because someone had sliced a large slit in her stomach, and she’d survived the injury long enough for infection to set in. It wouldn’t have been an easy death.

Angel stood again and brushed the grit from the alley off his knee. Then he shook his head. “A human did this.”

Detective Dunn made a skeptical face. “How do you know that?”

“Cut’s nice and smooth, not too deep. That was done by a blade, not a claw or a tusk. Whoever did it didn’t want her dead right away. And look at those ligature marks on her wrists and ankles. Rope. Not many demons bother to tie up their victims. Her body’s pretty intact—nothing tried to take a bite out of her.”

Dunn scratched at his head. “So you think it was just some sicko, taking out his mommy issues on the nearest whore?”

Angel shrugged. “I don’t know. But I can’t think of a reason any demon would want to do this to someone.” He started to walk back to his Viper, which was parked on the other side of the yellow tape.

“But a human would, huh?”

Angel paused and turned back to look at Dunn. “You should know by now, Detective. It’s the humans you really gotta watch for.”

 

***

 

“Oh, c’mon. You must be hungry by now. And look—this one looks awfully tasty.” The man yanked hard on the terrified boy’s hair, pulling his head down and fully exposing a tender-looking neck. The boy whimpered behind his gag.

“Sod off.” His voice was thin and raspy, and he didn’t sound convincing, not even to himself.

The man propelled the boy a few steps closer until he was almost within reach. The boy’s heart thudded loudly, as if it was as desperate to escape as the rest of him. He’d wet himself and a large damp patch stained the front of his dirty trousers. His eyes were red and puffy from crying, but Spike thought he was probably usually quite pretty. He had badly done tattoos on his skinny arms—a skull with a rose in its teeth on his right bicep, and something on his left arm that Spike couldn’t quite make out, since the boy’s wrists were bound tightly behind him. He had the look of something uncared-for, a stray. A runaway, perhaps, most likely a rent boy.

The man huffed impatiently. “I don’t have all night, now. All you have to do is ask me nicely and your dinner will be served.” When Spike didn’t answer, the man dug his free hand into a jacket pocket and pulled out a blade, which he flicked open. He dragged the point of it under the boy’s chin, not deeply, but enough to draw a thin line of crimson. The boy mewled, fresh tears spilling from his eyes. Spike moaned and scooted farther back against his wall. He hid his face against his filthy knees, but he couldn’t block out the scent of blood, the rich, coppery tang that now eclipsed the smells of urine and dirt and damp concrete.

“No,” Spike rasped.

“If you don’t, I’m only gonna kill him anyway. Just like the last one. Did you enjoy that?”

Spike hadn’t.

“So. What’s it going to be, then? Decide quick.” The boy started to struggle in the man’s grip, showing more fight than he had before, but he was tightly bound. Besides, the man was at least six inches taller and a hundred muscular pounds heavier. The man easily held the boy, laughing slightly at his efforts. “I’ll give you to the count of three. One, two—“

“Yes.”

The man smiled broadly. “You know you have to ask nicer than that. I told you how. Do you remember?”

Spike ran a dry tongue over drier lips and squeezed his eyes tightly shut. “Please…master,” he whispered.

The man smiled in triumph. “Well, we’re gonna have to work on your delivery, but that’ll do for now. Bon appétit, slave.” And he shoved the boy hard, so that he landed in a heap so close to Spike that his clothes brushed against Spike’s bare legs.

The boy tried to wiggle away, but Spike leapt forward and knocked him back against the cold floor, then scrambled so that he was kneeling over the kid’s narrow chest, pinning him in place. Spike was at the end of his tethers like this and his collar dug painfully into his neck. He vamped out. The boy’s eyes grew very round and his squirming body froze. Spike bent down, then, and, tenderly as he could, bent the boy’s head to the side.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed into one pinkish ear. And then he bit.

[Chapter One](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/74986.html)


	2. One of Your Kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Several years post-NFA, Angel investigates a series of killings. Is Spike the culprit or a victim?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   The fic is complete and I'll post daily. It has 10 chapters plus the prologue and an epilogue. Banners and icons by the incomparable [](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/profile)[**blondebitz**](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/)!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:**|   
[one of your kind](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/one%20of%20your%20kind), [spangel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spangel)  
  
---|---  
  
_**One of Your Kind, 1/10**_  
**Title: **One of Your Kind   
**Chapter:** 1/10   
**Pairing:** Spike/Angel   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Warnings:** non-con, torture, angst, language, m/m   
**Summary:** Several years post-NFA, Angel investigates a series of killings. Is Spike the culprit or a victim?   
**Author's Note:**  The fic is complete and I'll post daily. It has 10 chapters plus the prologue and an epilogue. Banners and icons by the incomparable [](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/profile)[**blondebitz**](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/)!

[Prologue Here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=One+of+Your+Kind&filter=all)

 

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/0005khkx/)  
---  
  
**  
CHAPTER ONE**

 

The door echoed when it slammed shut. So did his footsteps, clomping across the lobby floor. Hell, his _breathing_ echoed, and that was damned annoying, so he just stopped.

He went to his office first because that’s where the whiskey was. Nowadays he always went there first. He poured himself several fingers, knowing that he wasn’t fooling himself, and soon enough he’d forego the tumbler altogether and just chug from the bottle. He checked the answering machine. No messages. No ungrateful people to save tonight. He could have a quiet evening. Catch up on his reading. Good. He pushed the button anyway, the one that played back the message callers received, and smiled as he heard the voice. It wasn’t his, of course. He couldn’t figure out how to work the stupid thing, and anyway, this was the last remnant of her he had. Okay, maybe it was a little creepy. But who was more entitled to be morbid than him?

He drained the glass as he listened, then pulled a book at random off the shelf. _A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. _He snorted and considered putting the thing back. Hell, he considered just tossing the thing; he didn’t know why the fuck he owned it anyway. But that would be breaking the rules of his own game, which directed that he read whatever he first touched, and in the end he tucked the book under one arm while he grabbed the glass and open bottle in his hands.

He took his time wandering upstairs. A few years ago, not long after he returned from Wolfram &amp; Hart, he’d moved to a different room. It was smaller than his original suite, but had none of the clinging memories. In any case, it was big enough for what he needed—a bed, a closet and dresser, a small bathroom, a comfortable chair with a table and lamp beside it, a refrigerator and a microwave. A month or two after Spike left he’d dragged the television from Spike’s room to his. Sometimes he spent hours on end staring blankly at the screen with no idea what he was watching. Tonight, though, he kept the tv off. After warming himself some pig blood he sat in his chair and delved into James Joyce, chasing each sip of blood with one of whiskey.

He put the book down when he got to the priest’s description of hell. Joyce’s hell was a pleasant vacation compared to the reality, and he smiled wryly at a mortal’s limited imagination. Limited, he thought as he got up to refill his blood, but still good enough to perpetrate horrors like the girl he’d seen tonight.

He wondered, sometimes, why he still bothered to play hero. It wasn’t like he really cared that much what happened to any of them. And he’d long since given up on redemption. It was a habit, he supposed, and it passed the time. Occasionally he even enjoyed himself, when he was in the middle of a particularly nasty melee, cut and bruised and damaged, knowing his opponent was hurt even worse.

Sighing, he downed the second glass of blood without bothering to warm it. The sun was just rising—he couldn’t see it, of course, not with his window blacked out—but he’d always made a habit of knowing when dawn would come each day. It was a habit that had saved him more than once. He rinsed the glass in the bathroom sink and left it there, then splashed some cold water on his face. Over two centuries dead and he still reflexively looked in the mirror. He saw nothing, of course, except for the cream-colored wall behind him.

He kicked off his shoes and let his clothes fall on the floor beside the bed. He probably should take a load to the drycleaners soon. Or maybe just buy new stuff. A small groan of comfort escaped him as he slipped between the sheets. Frette. Nineteen hundred bucks a set and worth every penny, especially when he remembered having to sleep in rough cotton nightshirts between scratchy linen sheets when he was human. The soft sateen whispered so nicely against his skin. Spike used to make fun of his poncy bedding, and then steal it for his own bed when Angel had his back turned.

And why was he thinking of that annoying little twit when he meant to be getting some sleep? He should think of something more pleasant…like syphilis.

It had been bad enough having Spike hanging around at Wolfram &amp; Hart, bothering everyone. But at least then Angel had been really busy with other things, and he didn’t have to spend much time with Spike. And he had to admit, Spike had even been an asset there at the end and had fought as fiercely as Angel. But it hadn’t been enough, had it? Sure, they’d won the battle, but everyone had died in the process. Everyone but Spike and Angel.

He remembered kneeling in the alley, carnage all around him, cradling Connor’s ruined body in his arms. Stubborn kid could have had a normal life, and instead he’d rushed headlong into Angel’s war. Angel hadn’t even realized he was there until it was too late, until the remnants of the demon army had retreated and Angel caught sight of his son’s corpse. He’d howled, then. The price he’d paid was just too steep. But Spike had staggered out from under a pile of Fyarls and given Angel that goddamn look he had, like he knew every corner of your twisted brain better than you did.

Wordlessly, Spike had followed Angel across town, to where the Hyperion sat dusty and deserted. He’d moved right on into a room and instantly filled the place with the smell of cigarettes and the sounds of soccer and the Sex Pistols. He stole Angel’s sheets and blood and called him names and just fucking _looked_ at him all the time.

Angel hadn’t meant to return to his old habits—hadn’t really meant anything—but within a couple weeks of the battle, somehow people found him. A woman who was being haunted by a Gtaknor spirit. A family whose patriarch had been kidnapped by a clan of F’raga. An entire subdivision in La Crescenta overrun with ghouls. Somehow he ended up bowing to their entreaties, ridding them of their problems. And Spike tagged along.

They’d kept on like that for…hell, for five or six years, he guessed. And then one day Spike was gone. No explanation, no note, nothing. Just an empty room, and the couple thousand bucks Angel kept stashed in his desk drawer disappeared, too.

The hotel was peaceful again after that. Just like it was now.

Angel starfished himself on the bed, taking up as much of the space as he could. He thought that maybe he ought to get some stuff to decorate the room a little. Or maybe even move to a bigger space. Not the old suite. But there were dozens and dozens of rooms to choose from, all empty. He could knock down walls. He could take up a whole goddamn floor if he wanted to.

He tried to sleep, but he was restless. Twitchy. The third time he caught himself reaching for his soft cock, he swore softly and gave in. He wrapped his palm around it and remained still for a moment, feeling the weight of it. He let it go and cupped his balls and weighed them, too. He remembered when he was a boy, furtively groping himself under the covers or behind a shed, convinced that he’d be going to hell for it. Maybe he was, when he thought about it. Because groping had led to whoring, and whoring had led to Darla, and Darla…well, she’d led to all sorts of things.

Darla. The astonishing feel of her cold, smooth skin, like chilled cream. The way she would ride him, her breasts eternally youthful under his hands and her cunt tight and slick. The delights she’d shown him, things he’d never have imagined even in his most depraved imaginings. The lessons she’d taught him.

He was hard now, and slowly stroking himself, pushing his foreskin forward and back and rubbing a droplet of precome over his skin.

He closed his eyes and pictured Drusilla, his lovely, sweet plum. His masterpiece. He’d raped her as he was killing her, and the taste of her was as sweet as candy, the feel of her the closest he’d come to heaven. Afterwards, well, she’d been more a chore than anything, really, but sometimes she would smile at him wickedly and call him “Daddy,” and then they’d play her favorite games and he’d be glad he turned her.

He moaned, softly at first, and then louder. Nobody to hear anyway. He hated himself for getting off on his past atrocities, but he could hardly help it, soul or not he was still a demon, and a part of him still reveled in these recollections. He rocked his hips upward into his fist and threw his head back on the pillow.

It was Buffy he thought of then. So tiny, so young, and yet so strong. Her combined power and innocence had intoxicated him, made him nearly senseless at times. He’d known falling for her was foolish long before he’d learned about the ramifications of his curse, but weak as always, he hadn’t been able to stop himself. Christ, it had been so good, for those few moments of time. She’d look at him with her eyes brimming with adoration, the way only a girl in love for the first time could do. And when they’d finally consummated their passion, she’d been hot as a furnace around him, burning him so that for just a second he’d actually thought his soul could be cleansed.

He was close, now, and he wouldn’t think about what had happened after.

He thrashed in his big bed, in his expensive sheets, and imagined long hair and soft curves, wet cunts and sharp fingernails. But in the end, when he gasped and shuddered and came all over his fancy linens, it was hard muscles he was thinking of, and blue eyes and a mouth curled in a knowing grin.

 

“This one is definitely one of yours.”

Angel rubbed his forehead, reminding himself that vampires did not get headaches. “Where?” he barked into the phone.

“Culver City. Ninety-eight thirty-five Palms Boulevard, behind the taco joint.”

“Be there in ten,” Angel said and hung up.

He had a strange relationship with Mike Dunn. The detective knew to call him when things looked odd. He was a smart guy, had heard things all the way back when he’d driven a black and white and Kate Lockley had been poking her nose into the city’s stranger goings on. So when he got promoted, he’d call Angel now and then. He wasn’t exactly happy about it, though. At the same time, Angel had worked up a certain amount of respect for the guy, because at least he didn’t go to great pains to ignore what was right under his nose. Unlike most of the rest of the human race.

Dunn saw Angel pull up at the scene and motioned to the officers to let Angel by. “Did you nab anyone for that girl a couple weeks ago?” Angel asked.

Dunn shook his head unhappily. “Nah. We thought it might be her pimp, but he has a pretty solid alibi. I dunno. It was probably just some weirdo. Unless he was a serial killer and we find some more like her, we’ll probably never catch him.”

“Sorry,” Angel said. He didn’t know what else to say.

“Yeah. Can’t win ‘em all.” But Dunn looked unhappy, and Angel knew he was the sort to take these cases to heart, even when the victim was only a hooker. “So, wanna take a look?”

The cops had trained several spotlights on the space behind the dumpsters so the body was bathed in almost glaring brightness. It was a kid, a boy, maybe sixteen, seventeen. Skinny. Unwashed. His hands were still bound behind his back, and his feet were hobbled together as well with thick plastic rope. His skin was gray and dry-looking, and Angel didn’t need to look under his clothes to know the coroner would find very little blood pooled in his body. Prominent on his grimy neck were two large, jagged holes.

“Not a blade this time,” Dunn said.

“Would you believe me if I said a barbecue fork?”

Dunn made a grunting sound that might have been intended as laughter. “Yeah, that’s probably what the ME will say. Why don’t you tell me what it really was, okay?”

Angel stood. “Vampire,” he said simply.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. Probably a fledge. Whoever chomped on this kid was really, really hungry.”

“No finesse, huh?”

“No.” Angel frowned. “I don’t understand the ropes, though. Why would a vamp tie him up, especially if the vamp was so desperate to feed?”

“You guys usually just, what? Grab and eat?”

Angel ignored the way the man had included him in this category. “Usually, yeah. Unless we’re in a mood to play with our food. But then the victim would probably have lots of careful small bites. More entertaining that way.”

Dunn looked disgusted. “Yeah. Whatever. But you’re positive it’s a vampire?”

“I’m positive. I haven’t heard of much activity in this area in a long time. I’ll look into it, okay?”

“Good.”

“And you’ll call me if you find more? Because if this vampire was this hungry, there’ll probably be more like him.” Angel pointed at the corpse.

“Yeah, I’ll call.”

Angel was halfway to his car when Dunn shouted, “Hey!” Angel turned. “Do we have to chop off his head or something? To make sure he doesn’t, um…rise? ‘Cause that’s gonna be a problem with—“

“No. He’d only rise if he’d swallowed some of the vampire’s blood. Which isn’t very likely with a gag in his mouth like that. He’s just dead.”

Dunn nodded.

 

The usual customers at Tony’s knew to leave him a wide berth. He could pick a table in the corner and sit silently on the sticky vinyl all night, and usually nobody would say a word to him. Not even the owner, whose name was Vick, not Tony. Vick would limp over to him periodically and pour him a refill and then leave. He didn’t have many informants here—few demons were stupid or foolhardy enough to be seen chatting with him in the open like that—but he liked to observe. It was dark in the corner and after a while the others would almost forget he was there. Tonight, for example, a pair of Brafiks bought something in a bag from a greasy-looking human man. Nothing too unusual there. Brafiks liked most of the same drugs humans did. But this dealer was new around here, and Angel wondered why he was selling to this crowd. Nothing to be worried about now, he decided, but it was worth keeping an eye on.

A vampire walked by from the back of the bar, a pretty brunette named Sheila. He called her name and she froze for a moment before turning and smiling lasciviously at him. “Hi, Angel,” she purred. “Want some company?”

He really didn’t. Not hers, anyway. But she might have some information he could use, so with a sour look on his face he gestured at the chair opposite him. She flounced herself down happily. There was a tiny speck of red just above her lip, which he found enormously distracting. She misunderstood his fascination with her face and smiled even more broadly. “I thought you were looking lonely,” she said. “We could go in the back room if you want. It’s empty now.”

“No. That’s not—I just want to talk.”

She shrugged. “Your loss, big guy.”

She wasn’t his type, wouldn’t have been even in his soulless days. Despite her nice features, there was something brittle and knowing about her. He liked girls who looked soft and vulnerable, even if they were really Slayers or vampires who used to be whores. This one reminded him uncomfortably of Lilah Morgan.

“Tell me who’s turning people in Culver City.”

Her eyes grew big. “Turning people? Angel, I haven’t heard of—“

“Cut the innocent act, Sheila. There’s at least one fledge out there. Somebody made it. Who?”

She shook her head. “I know the rules. Everybody knows the rules, Angel. We stick to feeding on the willing and you leave us alone. The whole city knows that.”

He’d thought so, too. For a while, he’d tried to wipe out all the vampires in LA, but new ones just moved in. So he worked out a compromise. In a city like this, there were always freaks who got a rush off of being someone’s dinner, or who’d become addicted to the bite. Vamps like Sheila could even make a few bucks renting themselves out that way. And since these vamps knew a good thing when they had one, and didn’t want to screw things up, they tended to police their own ranks pretty well.

“Somebody new’s in town then.”

“I haven’t heard anything about that.”

He wasn’t all that great at reading people, but she seemed sincere enough. He sighed. “Fine. But if you do hear anything....”

“You’ll be the first to know.” Her smile reappeared. “Sure you don’t want to go in back? I’ve already eaten tonight, but I could round you up a snack if you want.”

“No,” he said. He stood and tossed a pair of twenties on the table for Vick. Sheila didn’t even pretend to look disappointed as he left.

 

He had hours yet until sunrise, and although he began driving toward the Hyperion, he couldn’t stand the thought of more time cooped up inside that place. So he turned the other way on Wilshire instead and headed west until he hit up with Santa Monica Boulevard. He parked near the beach and got out, then walked to the sand.

The pier was closed up and deserted and nobody else was on the broad beach. He pulled off his shoes and socks and walked slowly, smiling slightly as he remembered the brief times he’d had in the sun, first wearing Spike’s goddamn ring, and later with Buffy, during the day that never was. But moonlight was good, too, although tonight it was mostly obscured and the air was thick with the scent of burning. Another fire in the hills today.

The sand was cool and soft, squishing pleasantly between his toes. He walked for some time until he found a hunk of driftwood, and then he sat on it and gazed at the phosphorescent waves. He didn’t much care for being _in_ the ocean—between the submarine mission during the war and his months imprisoned in the box, he’d had more than enough of that. But he did like to look at it. He liked the way it constantly changed, and how it appeared fairly simple on the surface but held endless mysteries beneath. When he was a lad, he’d wander off to the harbor and watch the boats come in, usually when he was supposed to be studying. It made his father angry, but, then, so did everything he did. Sometimes, though, he’d be allowed to accompany his father when he went to receive shipments of silk, or to send off shipments of linen. He’d enjoyed that. For a time, he’d even dreamt about becoming a sailor, going off to visit exotic lands. Well, he’d seen them eventually anyway, hadn’t he?

He’d seen a lot of things.

He sat for a long time, letting his thoughts wander. For a while, he played with the puzzle of the dead boy, but that got him thinking about sires and grandsires and their offspring, and that wasn’t a direction he really wanted to go in tonight.

Dawn was only an hour away when he trudged back to the Viper and drove back across streets already beginning to choke with morning commuters. The Hyperion loomed against the purpling sky. His refuge, his prison, his home.

 

Things were very quiet for a while after that. Angel spent several evenings haunting Culver City but there was no sign of any vampires. No more exsanguinated corpses, either. Maybe the vamp had moved on, or got itself dusted. Luckily for humanity, few fledges managed to last long enough to gain any sense, not unless their sires looked out for them.

He found himself somewhat at loose ends. He spent a few evenings at Tony’s, mostly because he was fairly certain that if he didn’t get out in public a little bit he was going to start talking to himself. He saw Sheila there one night, heading for the back room hand-in-hand with a middle-aged guy with a gray ponytail. She waved a little at Angel. Twenty minutes or so later the man came back out looking a little dazed. He didn’t have any marks on his neck and Angel momentarily wondered where Sheila had bitten him. She emerged just a few minutes later with her lipstick freshly applied, and approached his table.

“Hey, Angel.”

“Hi.”

“Did you find your mystery vamp?”

He shook his head. “Have you heard anything?”

“No. I asked around and everything. Jesus—you know him, he sucks over at The Pit—he said he was crashing in Culver City until recently, and there were no other vampires there.”

“How do I know it wasn’t Jesus who did it?”

“Well, you can ask him if you want, but he’s got a pretty full dance card as it is. I can’t imagine he’d be shopping for something on the side.”

She was probably right. Jesus was drop-dead gorgeous and never in danger of missing a meal. He had no trouble at all finding all the donors he needed, and besides, he honestly seemed more interested in fucking them than killing them anyway.

Sheila looked like she was thinking about sitting down, and he was considering how to discourage her without being too big of a dick when his cell phone rang. Not rang, exactly. It played “Holidays in the Sun” because that’s what Spike had programmed it to do, and Angel couldn’t figure out how to change the damn ring tone himself. He’d almost just bought himself a new phone, but this one was still perfectly good, even if it was several years old.

He glanced at the caller ID and wasn’t surprised to discover it was Dunn. He flipped the phone open. “Yeah?”

“Got another.”

 

This one was in the brush alongside an onramp to the 10. From the looks of the body it had rolled down the small embankment, and it might have stayed there a while because it wasn’t very visible from the road, but it had been discovered by some homeless guys who’d been planning to camp out under the overpass.

This was another woman, still wearing the remains of a skimpy scarlet dress. Her feet weren’t bound but her hands were, with the same yellow plastic rope as the boy. Her body was slight, almost boyish, and she had caramel skin and short, glossy black hair. The ragged perforations over her jugular were clearly visible.

“Was it the same perp?”

Angel frowned. “I don’t know. The attack looks just as messy, and the ropes…and we’re only a couple of miles from the last one.” He thought for a minute, counting back days. “You haven’t found any others since that boy?”

“I’d have called you if we had. Why?”

“Because it’s been a while. If it’s the same killer, he’d have eaten sooner than this, unless he was starving himself for some reason.”

“Why would he do that?”

Angel scratched at his cheek. “I have no idea.”

“Maybe there’s more victims and we just haven’t found ‘em yet. It’s a big city.”

Angel knelt in the scrubby grass to get a better look. The girl’s eye makeup was badly smeared as if she’d been crying. She wasn’t gagged now, but there were deep indentations around her mouth that indicated she had been when she died. Her dark brown eyes were wide open.

A car rushed by on the onramp, its headlights washing over the scene. Angel caught a glint of something shiny on her dress and bent lower. Hair. A few strands of white-blond hair caught in the cheap-looking necklace she wore around her neck. He didn’t want to touch anything—he’d leave that to the evidence techs—but he leaned in very closely and could just make out the half inch or so of darker roots on the hairs. The vamp bleached his or her hair, it seemed.

It hit him with horrible certainty.

Not caring what Dunn would think, he placed his face almost touching the dead woman’s chest and inhaled deeply. And there the scent was, faint but unmistakable.

Spike.

[Chapter Two](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/75478.html)

.


	3. One of Your Kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Several years post-NFA, Angel investigates a series of killings. Is Spike the culprit or a victim?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fic is complete and I'll post daily. It has 10 chapters plus the prologue and an epilogue. Banners and icons by the incomparable [](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/profile)[**blondebitz**](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/)!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[one of your kind](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/one%20of%20your%20kind), [spangel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spangel)  
  
---|---  
  
_**One of Your Kind, 2/10**_  
**Title: **One of Your Kind   
**Chapter:** 2/10   
**Pairing:** Spike/Angel   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Warnings:** non-con, torture, angst, language, m/m   
**Summary:** Several years post-NFA, Angel investigates a series of killings. Is Spike the culprit or a victim?   
**Author's Note:** The fic is complete and I'll post daily. It has 10 chapters plus the prologue and an epilogue. Banners and icons by the incomparable [](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/profile)[**blondebitz**](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/)!

[Previous chapters here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=One+of+Your+Kind&filter=all)

 

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/0005khkx/)  
---  
  
**  
CHAPTER TWO**

 

He blamed the Slayer.

Things were so easy before her. His needs had been simple: feeding, fighting, fucking, and fags. He’d never wanted to rule the world, never wasted time on evil schemes, rarely even bothered to torture his victims like Angelus did. And fulfilling his needs had been simple as well. He saw something he wanted, he took it. Sure, he’d had to put up with Drusilla, as inconstant as the moon and loony, too. But his dark princess was beautiful and she always came back to him eventually, and they’d had some lovely times.

He’d been happy most of the time.

Buffy had ruined all that for him, hadn’t she? First with her dogged refusal to just give in and die like a good Slayer, and then there’d been her hulking boy toy and his Gestapo friends and their sodding chips. And then Spike had gone and fallen in love with her, as stupidly as always, and she hadn’t just done the humane thing and bloody staked him over it. And finally there was the soul. The spark that let him burn himself, the flame that perpetually scorched him like his own interior miniature hell. The bloody Jiminy Cricket that wouldn’t even let him steal a packet of cigarettes without feeling bloody guilty about it.

Without the soul he wouldn’t have been stupid enough to think that hanging about with Angel was a good idea. Even after the brooding bastard had got all his friends killed Spike had stayed, somehow convincing himself it was the right thing to do. But night after night his grandsire’s loathing of him buffeted him like physical strikes, no matter how many times Spike proved he was as big a Champion as the pouf. It had been bad enough at Wolfram &amp; Hart, but at least there there had been others present to cushion the blow a bit, and Angel had been busy contemplating the nature of good and evil and tilting at windmills.

In the Hyperion, it had been only the two of them.

It was a big hotel. Sometimes they went days without seeing each other and they usually interacted only when Angel had something that needed killing, or when he wanted to yell at Spike for nicking some of his whiskey or some of his dosh. So you’d think it would have been all right, then. But even when Spike sat in his room two floors and an endless corridor away from Angel, he could practically feel the old man sitting in his near-monastic room. Moping.

It was just too much.

When Spike couldn’t stand it a moment later he left, and he expected Angel actually might have cracked a smile over that despite the pile of cash Spike took with him. He’d managed to find his way back home to London, where he hadn’t been in so many decades that it had long since stopped being home. While he was in London he ran into Rupert Giles, and the man had, surprisingly, been willing to throw back a few pints with him at a pub near the Watchers’ new headquarters. Several rounds in Rupert had let it slip that Buffy and the other Scoobies were in Scotland.

Spike went there, and spent the better part of a month trying to get the courage to approach Buffy. He wasn’t even certain whether she knew he’d been resurrected. Perhaps Rupert had told her, or that little ponce, Andrew. She certainly hadn’t made any effort to get in touch with him. He’d acted like a bloody stalker, hiding in the woods, surreptitiously gathering bits of information about her in the nearby village. And then one fine evening he’d come around a corner and caught sight of her sitting at a table outside a pub. She was there with a group of her Slayers and Xander Harris, and she was laughing so hard at something that she was snorting and had to put down her glass of ale. He’d left for the continent that night.

He’d spent months just wandering, no particular goal in mind. Once in a while he’d find a nasty demon to brawl with, just for the fun of it. Unfortunately, Angel’s money hadn’t lasted long. He could always find someplace to lay his head for the day—a tunnel, an abandoned farmhouse or factory or shop, a few times the basement of a church, and once even the ruins of castle. But he still had to eat, didn’t he, and hunting was out of the question.

He was in Prague when he first whored himself. Should have known better than to visit that city, but it really was lovely, and he liked to walk along the Vltava at night and watch the boats go through the locks, or wander up near the castle. There was a cemetery there he fancied too, atop the hill at Vyšehrad. Dvořák and Mucha were interred there.

But he’d been dead broke, reduced to asking passers by for cigarettes and getting hungrier by the moment. Then late one night as he stood morosely on the Charles Bridge, sneering at a saint or two, a tall young bloke wearing a checked scarf had approached him and said, “Kolik stojí?”

Spike’s Czech was serviceable but rusty. In English he replied, “’M not for hire, mate.”

The man shook his head impatiently. “But you vampire, yes?” He pronounced it _vam-peer_. “You, uh, like this, yes?” He mimed biting into his own wrist. “I pay tisíc korun.”

Spike swiftly did the conversion in his head. It was about 60 dollars. Not a fortune by any means, but it was 1000 crowns more than he had now, and he’d get a small meal besides. It wasn’t as if he had any self-respect left anyhow.

He nodded and then followed the kid across the bridge into Malá Strana. They ducked into a narrow space between two buildings and Spike held his hand out. Smiling broadly, the boy fished a wad of bills from his front trousers pocket and handed them over. Spike counted them before he stuffed them in his duster. Then he’d backed the bloke against the stone wall and watched as the man tilted his head and his toffee-colored eyes dilated.

Tenderly, Spike bit.

It had been a very long time since Spike had had fresh human blood straight from the vein, and the thrill of it went to his head a little. He had to struggle not to take too much. The stupid human didn’t help, blindly clutching Spike tightly against his bony body and rocking his pelvis against Spike’s. But Spike had managed to tear himself away, leaving the man leaning woozily against the building.

After that it had been easy to sell himself. He’d fed well, and had plenty to smoke and drink as well. Sometimes he even had enough to stay in a hotel for a time or rent a flat for a week or two. Someplace with electricity and a telly and hot running water. And once in a while he’d shag his customer as well, or allow the customer to shag him. They’d pay extra and he’d get his end away.

He’d traveled all over Europe that way, occasionally making brief forays into Central Asia or Northern Africa. He marveled at how diverse people were, and yet how fundamentally the same. He met up with some bloody interesting creatures, and he poked around in secondhand bookshops for books in English, and he found a football game to watch now and then.

It wasn’t a bad existence, not at all. It was certainly more peaceful than any time he’d had before and nobody yelled at him or held him in disdain. It was only when he suddenly collapsed on a side street in Berlin and began sobbing uncontrollably that he admitted the truth to himself.

He was miserable.

 

He’d never been a coward. Not even that pansy William was. Stupid, yeah. Caught up in ridiculous romantic delusions, certainly. But not a coward.

But when he managed to drag himself back to LA after tedious and hungry months spent creeping along darkened highways or stowed away in a cargo hold, he couldn’t quite work up the courage to go to the Hyperion. He thought about it for days, rehearsed scenarios in his head, but all of them ended up with Angel telling him to bugger off, or worse. So he skulked in alleys or sat in bars, drinking, hoping the situation would somehow sort itself. Which it did, in a way, although not at all as he had hoped.

His pockets had been empty again and when the sun rose in a few hours he wouldn’t be able to hire the dingy little room where he’d been sleeping. He could always duck down to the sewers and spend the day there, but he didn’t fancy another twelve or thirteen hours with his empty belly rumbling at him. He sat in a dodgy demon bar, nursing his very last beer, contemplating his options.

He’d nearly decided to swallow the tattered remnants of his pride and look the old man up after all, when he noticed a bloke eyeing him from a few seats down the bar. Spike turned his head and gave the man a frankly assessing look, and the man didn’t glance away. He was in his early forties and big, a layer of fat beginning to form over heavy muscles. He had a face slightly too coarse to be handsome, with brown hair cut short and odd gray eyes. His clothing was casual—dark trousers and a silky pullover with a light jacket over it—but Spike would wager that it cost a pretty penny. The man wore a big, flashy ring on his right index finger.

After a few minutes of mutual staring, the man downed his drink, stood, and slowly walked over to Spike. He was tall, perhaps even taller than Angel. “Vampire?” he asked.

“What business is it of yours?”

“About a hundred bucks worth of my business.”

Spike looked at him flatly. He hadn’t wanted to whore himself out here, not in Angel’s town. But then what difference would it make? It wasn’t like the pillock could loathe him any more than he already did. “And what do you expect you can buy for a hundred dollars?”

The man smiled slightly. “I heard a bite can be a real…rush. I want to try it.”

Spike finished off his beer then slid off the stool, keeping far enough back that the bloke wouldn’t loom over him too much. “Let’s go.” He jerked his head toward the back exit.

“How about my car? We’d be more comfortable that way.”

Bloke likely thought he was too good for the dirty alley, Spike thought sourly. But all right, the car was fine.

He followed the man through the bar and out the front door. It was a bit chilly out that evening and, out of habit more than anything, he drew his duster around himself as they walked down the block.

The man had a burgundy-colored Mercedes, a big sedan that looked entirely out of place in this neighborhood. He got in on the rear driver’s side and Spike slid in beside him. The seats were soft black leather. It was more comfortable than the alley by far.

In the sudden intimacy of the small space, without even the dome light to brighten things up, the man’s breathing was loud and harsh. “If you’re having second thoughts, now’s the time to tell me, mate.”

“No, no second thoughts. I’ve been waiting for this a long time.”

It was an odd thing to say, Spike thought, but then most people willing to pay for this were a bit off. “I’ll take the hundred now.” Sometimes the johns passed out and he didn’t fancy digging through this one’s pockets.

A bit awkwardly in the small space, the man pulled out his wallet, from which he extracted a bill. He handed it to Spike, who tucked it into his duster. “Ta.”

Spike vamped out then and saw the man’s eyes go wide. “Where do you want it, then?” Most chose the neck—it fit their vampire fantasies well—but some preferred an arm because the marks were easier to hide, and some fancied the thrill of being bit on their inner thigh. Didn’t much matter to him. It tasted the same wherever it came from.

“Oh, the neck, of course. Isn’t that where your kind likes to feed?”

Again, an odd statement. But Spike shrugged it off and scooted slightly closer across the seat. The man bent his head a bit and threw his big right arm around Spike. His left hand snaked between them inside his jacket, and before Spike was able to process the peculiarity of that, there was a muffled _bang_ and something struck him painfully in the chest.

Shocked, Spike instinctively tried to pull back. Had the fucker _shot_ him?? But the man gripped him tightly now. Spike struggled to get loose and had nearly broken free when his vision started to gray and his muscles turned to rubber.

“Oh, bollocks,” he slurred, and passed out.

 

Cold.

That was his first thought—he was really bloody cold. But that complaint quickly faded to insignificance as he became aware that he had the mother of all hangovers. Felt like his head was sodding exploding, and he wondered how much he’d had to drink to get this sick. Cautiously, he peeled his eyes open. For a sickening moment he thought he’d been blinded, because all he saw was blackness. But before he could quite fall into panic, he realized he was only in a very, very dark room. So dark even his vampire sight was useless.

Where the hell had he managed to end up? His limbs barely obeyed him as he attempted to stand. But as he gathered his wobbly knees underneath himself, he also realized that heavy chains were fastened to his ankles and wrists, and to a wide collar that was digging into his neck. Furious, he tugged and pulled on the fetters until his skin was torn, but they didn’t budge at all.

Breathing hard with fear and rage, he tried to calm himself a bit so he could suss out what was happening. The chains were short. He could stand, but could only go a few feet. The were anchored very solidly in the wall, which was slightly damp and felt like concrete. The floor was concrete, too. Other then himself, the shackles, the wall, and the floor, he could feel nothing. He was completely naked as well, a situation that concerned him nearly as much as the restraints.

He shouted as loudly as he could: “Oi! Where are you? Who’s there?” It echoed loudly, and he got the sense he was in a fairly large space, but there was no response. So he shouted until his throat was sore, hearing nothing but his own voice.

He had another desperate fit of thrashing about and yanking on the chains, this one no more fruitful than the last, and then collapsed onto the hard floor in defeat. He scooted until his back was up against the wall and sat with his arms wrapped around his legs. His head still ached and now his stomach joined in the general chorus, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten in some time.

He waited.

He had no idea how long he was there. Days at least, he was pretty certain. Sometimes he curled up and shivered himself into a fitful sleep. Sometimes he hurt himself in helpless rages. Sometimes he speculated about who was keeping him and why, but he didn’t get very far. Clearly, the bloke at the bar had drugged him, but why? Had he wanted Spike specifically or would any demon have done? Did he snatch Spike for his own purposes or for someone else? What did he mean to do to him? He hadn’t dusted Spike when he obviously could have, so that didn’t seem to be his goal, at least right now. But there were no answers to any of his questions.

Finally, with no warning whatsoever, a blast of light filled the room. Spike screamed hoarsely at the assault on his sensitive eyes and hid his face behind an arm. There was the slight, metallic clicking of a doorknob and he felt a small brushing of air moving against him before footsteps slapped against the floor. He heard breathing and a steady heartbeat.

When the person didn’t speak, Spike slowly and cautiously lowered his arm and blinked his eyes open. It took a few minutes for his blurry vision to clear. When it did, he saw that he was in a large, mostly empty room. He was tethered close to a corner, and two sets of bars were set at right angles into the walls, forming a cell around him that was perhaps ten feet square. On the other side of the bars, several more sets of chains were attached to the walls, but he was the only prisoner, it seemed. A plain, slightly scarred wooden chair was a few feet outside his cell. The man from the bar was sprawled there, his legs crossed comfortably, a wide grin on his face. He was holding an amber bottle in one hand and he sipped from it as Spike watched. His other hand was wrapped around something Spike couldn’t make out.

“Who are you?” Spike rasped.

“As far as you’re concerned, I’m God.”

Spike choked back a retort. “What do you want?”

“I have what I want.” He took another sip and smacked his lips with satisfaction. “I have my own pet vampire.”

Spike’s throat clicked when he swallowed. “Why?”

“’Cause I can do this.” He raised the hand without the bottle, and Spike caught just a glimpse of black plastic before his entire body exploded in agony. Ragged screams tore from his lungs as his body twitched and jittered uncontrollably on the floor. It felt like the time he burned under Sunnydale, and he expected he was going to dust. Welcomed the thought, actually, because even hell had to be better than this.

But he didn’t dust. Eventually the pain faded and his body stilled, leaving him gasping and coughing blood-flecked foam. He groaned and rolled his head so he could see his captor, who was still sitting in the chair, smiling smugly.

“That was better than I thought!” he exclaimed. “I mean, I couldn’t really try out the collar on anybody before, so I wasn’t sure how big the zap would be. I’m gonna go get my camera!”

Spike hadn’t moved by the time the man returned. The beer was gone now, and instead he held a video camera in one hand and a tripod under his arm. He set them up on the floor. “Gonna put this on YouTube,” he muttered under his breath. When everything was set to his satisfaction he sat down again, and again activated the collar. It was worse this time. It felt to Spike like his body was being turned inside out and like every nerve was a river of fire. It took him longer to recover, too, but finally he lay on his back, staring up at the dull gray ceiling, too ravaged even to moan.

When the man shocked him a third time, Spike mercifully blacked out.

 

The man came and went several times after that, Spike thought. He wasn’t certain. Really wasn’t certain of anything anymore except pain and cold and hunger. Of those three things he was very, very sure. Whenever the man left he turned out the light, leaving Spike drowned in blackness. The nothingness of it was starting to seem comforting.

After a while, though, the man seemed to grow bored. Perhaps Spike wasn’t reacting to the jolts very satisfyingly any more. His voice was gone and he hardly had the strength to move anymore. His only remaining hope was that the bastard would just give in and stake him.

And then something different happened. When the light flicked on this time Spike shielded his eyes as always, but now he heard two sets of footsteps and two heartbeats, one of which was racing madly. He slowly opened his eyes to see the man standing there as always, but this time a woman was there, too. She wore tight shorts and a red filmy blouse. A wad of white fabric was stuffed in her mouth and tied in place, and it looked like her hands were tied behind her back. Her feet were tied as well, with only enough slack to permit her an awkward shuffle. She was crying and terrified.

Spike blinked at them in bewilderment.

“You know, originally I was just gonna play with you a while and then kill you. A little payback for past wrongs. But…I don’t know. You’re more fun than I’d thought.” The man sighed. “But I guess if I’m gonna keep you around a while I’m gonna have to feed you.” Then he brightened. “But that’s okay, because it gives me an excuse to get rid of some human trash. Kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.”

Spike’s brain was too slow right now to process any of this, so he only hunched against the wall and watched mutely as the man pushed the girl closer to the bars. When they were right up against the cell, he took a key out of his pocket and put it in a lock, and then swung part of the cage open. The girl took advantage of this brief distraction to try to run away, but she only got a step or two before the man grabbed her again, laughing, and hauled her into the cell with him.

Spike was ashamed to find himself cowering away as the man came very close to him and then tied the trailing end of the rope around the girl’s hands to the one of the rings in the wall where Spike’s chains were attached. Then he left the cell, clanging the bars shut and relocking them. “Go ahead,” he said. “Eat up.”

The girl squealed and tried to move away, but only succeeded in tripping and falling to the floor beside Spike. She couldn’t get up again and instead she curled tightly into herself and sobbed more loudly. Spike scooted as far from her as he could, which wasn’t very.

“What’s the problem? Don’t like the flavor of hooker? That’s all that’s on the menu.”

Spike shook his head miserably. “Don’t eat humans,” he whispered.

“What?”

“I don’t eat humans.”

“What are you, a fucking vegetarian vampire? Stupid son of—“ The man’s eyes grew wide. “Oh! Wait. I know what you are! I heard of you. The vampire with a fucking soul, right? Angel!”

Spike’s empty guts twisted. “I have a soul,” he said. “But I’m not bloody Angel.”

The man looked thoughtful for a moment, then shrugged. “Well, whatever. Still a vamp. Bite her.”

“No.”

“That’s all you’re getting.”

“Then I’ll starve.” He knew what happened to vampires who went too long without feeding. Wes had told him about his grandsire’s time under the Pacific as well. A permanent hallucinatory coma seemed like the best alternative right now.

But the man’s face sharpened with anger. “You think you’re going to save her? Like you’re some fucking hero? Soul or not, you’re still a monster, and she’s already dead.”

Furiously, he stomped to the far corner of the room and came back with a length of blue plastic rope in his hand. He unlocked the bars again, crossed the small space, and grabbed the moaning girl by the hair. He untied her from the wall. He dragged her to the bars and pulled her upright into a sitting position, then proceeded to tie her hands tightly to the metal. When he was satisfied that she was well-secured, he reached into his pocket again, and this time came out with a brown-handled pocket knife. The girl screeched as well as she could and tried to squirm away, and Spike croaked, “Don’t!” But the man simply knelt beside her and ran the blade down her soft stomach, cutting both fabric and flesh. Spike’s mouth watered at the scent of blood.

A few minutes later, the man was gone. He left the light on this time, though, and Spike looked at the girl, who was moaning. The wound was deep, although probably not enough to kill her right away. Spike had had belly wounds before, and even with vampire healing they hurt like hell. He tried to get closer to her, but even with the chains pulled so tight that the collar dug deeply into his neck he couldn’t reach her.

“Love,” he said softly. “Can you hear me?”

Her eyes had been unfocused, but now they rolled towards him and she gazed at him pleadingly.

“Can you work your hands free? Can’t help you from here.” He wasn’t sure how he’d help her anyway, but perhaps he’d manage something. She tugged and squirmed a bit, but the bastard had tied her tightly, and even without the injury she’d have had no leverage in that position.

She groaned and a fresh gout of blood dripped down and pooled in her lap. He had to turn his head away. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

It took her a long time to die.

 

After the man had taken the body away, the room still smelled of blood, piss, shit, and death. Spike expected he didn’t smell very nice himself now. Not that that was his primary worry.

Some time after the body was gone, the man came back and smiled through the bars at Spike. “You know, at first I wasn’t too sure about the whole soul thing. But now I’m realizing it’s going to make playing with you a lot more interesting.”

“Fuck you,” Spike said, and almost managed to brace himself in time for the shock.

When Spike had recovered enough to listen again, the man tilted his head at him. “I think…from now on you’ll call me master. Yeah. That has a nice ring to it. I might bring you another meal soon, and if you ask me nicely, I might let you feed.”

Spike didn’t answer.

“Yeah, got some plans for you.”

“Why?” Spike asked again. For some reason that question bothered him the most.

He didn’t really expect the man to answer him. But the man pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and fished around until he had a photo. He held it up so Spike could see. It was a pretty young woman. She had blonde hair and tanned skin, and she was wearing a short white dress with little yellow flowers on it. She was leaning against a red car—Spike couldn’t make out the model—and smiling broadly, revealing straight, white teeth.

“That’s Lori,” the man said. “My wife. A really special girl, you know? Second in her law school class at Berkeley, great sense of humor, legs that went for miles. We were married just over three years.”

He turned the photo around so he could look at it. “She was on a business trip to Atlanta. A deposition to do. She was really excited about the case, some multimillion thing with banks and an insurance company. I guess a meeting went late and she was walking back to her rental car.”

Spike knew exactly where this was going.

“I panicked because she never called me that night. She always called me before she went to bed. I tried her cell but there was no answer. So I called the cops there, and they argued with me, but finally they went looking. She was only about ten feet from the car, they said.” He let the hand with the photo drop and narrowed his eyes at Spike. “Some psycho stabbed her to death with a barbecue fork, they said. Only there was hardly any blood at the scene. Strange, huh?”

“It wasn’t me. I’ve been in Europe—“

“That doesn’t fucking matter!” the man screamed, and Spike flinched back. “One of your kind murdered my love and I’m going to make you pay!” His voice dropped suddenly, a false calm settling over him. “She was pregnant, you know. That’s what the coroner said. She hadn’t even told me yet. Probably didn’t want to jinx it. She was superstitious like that.”

“I’m sorry,” whispered Spike.

The man gave a sickly smile and held up his bit of black plastic. “No. But you will be,” he said, and activated the collar.

 

So Spike ate the boy with the tattoos. And after that, the bint in the red dress, and the black girl who was really a tranny, and after that…well, he lost track.

Lost track of most things, because he mostly succeeded in turning off his mind. He only huddled in the darkness, not thinking, and endured the shocks, not thinking, and especially didn’t think when he begged for his meals and then sank his fangs into living flesh.

The man got tired of the collar and added new torments for variety. Nothing unpredictable—whips and blades, holy water, things like that. Once he brought in a shotgun and opened fire, peppering Spike’s body with tiny lead pellets. Spike spent a long time after that digging them out with his teeth and fingernails.

Spike was hardly surprised the day the man came in brandishing the pole from patio umbrella, which he promptly shoved so far up Spike’s arse that Spike could nearly taste the metal. And, a feeding or two later, Spike was also hardly astonished when the bastard unfastened his flies and stuck his dick into Spike instead.

 

[Chapter Three](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/75630.html)


	4. One of Your Kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Several years post-NFA, Angel investigates a series of killings. Is Spike the culprit or a victim?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fic is complete and I'll post daily. It has 10 chapters plus the prologue and an epilogue. Banners and icons by the incomparable [](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/profile)[**blondebitz**](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/)!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[one of your kind](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/one%20of%20your%20kind), [spangel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spangel)  
  
---|---  
  
_**One of Your Kind, 3/10**_  
**Title: **One of Your Kind   
**Chapter:** 3/10   
**Pairing:** Spike/Angel   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Warnings:** non-con, torture, angst, language, m/m   
**Summary:** Several years post-NFA, Angel investigates a series of killings. Is Spike the culprit or a victim?   
**Author's Note:** The fic is complete and I'll post daily. It has 10 chapters plus the prologue and an epilogue. Banners and icons by the incomparable [](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/profile)[**blondebitz**](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/)!

[Previous chapters here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=One+of+Your+Kind&filter=all)  
  
[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/0005khkx/)  
---  
  
**  
CHAPTER THREE**

 

Angel hit the punching bag so viciously that it tore loose from its chain and flew several feet across the training room floor. But that didn’t cool his fury, so he kicked at the wall, leaving a large hole in the plaster. It wasn’t the first one there.

There’d been another body found earlier that evening, stuffed in a dumpster behind a McDonald’s. A dozen corpses over the past eight months, all bound and bitten, all smelling of Spike. There were undoubtedly more murdered as well, but the bodies had been better disposed of. Word on the street was that quite a few hookers and bums and addicts and runaways had gone missing, but since those types had a tendency to move frequently anyway, it was difficult to tell how many were truly gone. The dozen bodies they did have had clearly been deliberately left where they’d be found. The little bastard was playing a game with him.

Angel punched the wall this time and heard his bones crack. Snarling, he disentangled his fist from the broken bits of wooden lathe and stomped across the lobby and up the stairs to his room. He grabbed a jar of pigs’ blood from the fridge and guzzled it down without bothering to heat it. After all these years, it still tasted like shit.

Leaving the empty jar atop the fridge, he walked over to his sole window and gazed outside, across the street and into the pre-dawn blackness, as if Spike might suddenly appear somewhere. Only when the sky was tinged light orange did he close the heavy curtains and collapse into his chair. He flexed his hand, considering whether to bandage it, but decided not to bother.

After all this time he was no closer to finding Spike. He’d searched and re-searched all the blond vampire’s old haunts, he’d asked around, had even beaten bloody a few demons he suspected were holding out on him. And all he’d come up with was a big zilch.

The only thing Angel knew for certain was that Spike was deliberately baiting him. He could hunt in any city, and, even if he had to be in LA for some reason, he could have more easily concealed his identity by hiding the bodies better or just dumping them in the ocean to wash away the traces of his scent. Angel could understand that Spike wanted to torment him. It wouldn’t be the first time—he could still feel those pokers sliding into his body—and besides, Angelus had certainly passed many an hour making Spike miserable.

He didn’t know how Spike had shed his soul. He’d thought it was considerably more permanent than his own, no happiness clause included. He wondered whether Spike had lost it deliberately, or if someone or something had taken it from him. Not that it really mattered at this point anyhow.

He was also completely perplexed by the way Spike was going about this. Although Spike had always preferred his victims young, like these were, he’d usually turned his nose up at such easy prey, preferring instead members of society he’d snatch outside schools and parties, or pretty boys and girls he’d pick up at bars. He liked a little challenge, and he was especially pleased when he knew that his murders would go well-noticed and would add to his reputation. He’d only resorted to street people when he was desperate.

And that raised another question: Why the hell was he killing them like that? He’d never gagged and bound his victims before. There’d been no reason to. Angelus had, now and then, when he was in the mood to play with his food, but Spike had always eaten quickly and then looked around for something to fuck or fight. Even when he’d been in a hurry, though, he’d never been so sloppy about his biting. For a brief time Angel had entertained the idea that Spike was using these people to feed someone he’d sired, and that’s why the marks were so messy. But there was no smell of another vampire on the victims, no sign of anyone but Spike, so Angel had rejected that idea.

The last victim, a fifteen-year-old runaway, had had more hairs caught in the buttons of his shirt. Still bleached at the ends, but now the strands were much longer, and had nearly as much of Spike’s natural color as white. Was Spike trying to return to his old Williamish appearance for some reason?

But the thing that puzzled Angel the most was the timeframe. Spike had about as much patience for plans as a hyperactive two-year-old. He’d never been able to follow things through for more than a day or two, certainly never for eight months. Lying low was hardly his forte either. Even in a city as big as LA, it would only be a short time before the demon community, at least, was well aware of the strutting peroxided vampire in their midst.

Angel thought about having another tantrum out of sheer frustration. But instead he rose heavily to his feet and slowly peeled off his clothing, and then collapsed in his empty bed. As soon as he closed his eyes, though, he could hear Angelus deep within himself, mocking him. “It’s not the killings you care about, now, is it?” In his head, Angelus always had the brogue that Angel had long since rid himself of. “It’s Sweet William himself. Your boy betrayed you.”

It didn’t do any good to yell at the voice in your head to be quiet—it only made you into a raving lunatic. So he gritted his teeth and said nothing. He did too care about the murders, even if they were a drop in the bucket compared to the thousands he and his progeny had committed over the centuries. And Spike was not his boy, had never been his boy. Not even if sometimes, as Spike had stubbornly stayed with him no matter how many times Angel yelled at him or beat him, Angel had momentarily thought that there might be more to it than a simple desire on Spike’s part to irritate his grandsire.

And as for betrayal—wouldn’t that have required that Angel trusted him to begin with?

 

“Table’s turned now, Peaches, isn’t it?” Spike smirked at him.

Angel struggled to get out of the wheelchair but he couldn’t move his legs, and he couldn’t stop the damned thing from rolling closer and closer to the other vampire, until Spike loomed over him, large and powerful. Angel tried to speak, but he couldn’t do that either because a wad of cloth was stuffed in his mouth and tied in place, just like those he’d seen in the victims’ mouths. He struggled to remove it but his hands were unaccountably clumsy, his fingers unable to grasp the bindings.

“Ah, nobody wants to hear your nattering anyhow, twat. You’re dead boring. Did you know that? About as lively as a corpse.” Spike cackled at his own joke, and behind him came a lighter laugh. Female. Spike moved aside slightly and there was Drusilla, dressed in a light green gown that looked just like the one she wore the first time he’d seen her, walking down a London street with her family. They were in a large, empty space. A basement, he thought. Bodies were scattered everywhere across the floor, each one staring blankly at him.

Drusilla had a doll in the crook of one arm. The doll moved, though, and Angel realized with horror that it was Buffy, somehow shrunk to only a foot tall, and unable to make any noise but a tiny cry. “Hullo, Daddy,” Drusilla said, running her fingertips across Spike’s shoulder. “Did you come to play with us?”

Angel made a muffled noise. Spike turned to Drusilla with annoyance written on his features. “Dru, I told you. Our game’s later, yeah? Right now it’s just me and the old man.”

Drusilla pouted. “I don’t want to wait. Let me play or I shall be very cross. I shall do something naughty, like this.” She threw Buffy on the floor and then, with a wicked smile on her lips, stamped her foot down hard. Buffy screamed and broke apart into a thousand pieces. “Now see what you’ve done, Daddy?”

But Spike turned sideways to look at her again. “I told you, not _now!_” he yelled. He reached into his duster, pulled out a stake, and, as Angel sat frozen, plunged it into her heart. She exploded into dust.

Spike tossed the stake onto Angel’s lap, and only when the rough wood scraped against his crotch did Angel realize he was naked. “Now, then, that’s sorted,” Spike said, smiling once more. He leaned down over the wheelchair and stroked Angel’s chest. “Now. What should we do to amuse ourselves?”

He bent a little lower then, and placed his lips on Angel’s forehead and gave him a loud, smacking smooch. Instead of moving away, though, he lightly ran his soft mouth down Angel’s brow and nose, and then he was kissing Angel. The gag was gone. Instead, it was Spike’s tongue now thrusting into Angel’s mouth, tasting of cigarettes and cheap booze, while Spike’s hand settled around Angel’s hardening cock and started to fist it.

Angel fought to get away, struggled not to respond to Spike’s touches, but he heard himself moaning like a slut while his pelvis arched up into Spike’s grip.

But if he could move his hips, then he should be able to use his hands properly, right? And he could. He grabbed the stake in his right hand and twisted it so the point was digging into Spike’s chest. One quick push would do it.

Spike didn’t try to get away. He only quickened his movements and ran his tongue along Angel’s jawline before sucking right over the spot where a living man’s pulse would be.

Angel let the stake fall. He heard it clatter on the floor and didn’t care, because this felt so good, better than anything he could remember, and he was so close, so close, so—

He awoke.

He reached under the twisted covers and grabbed his cock, and after only three or four hard, fast pulls he was coming, pumping his cold seed over his hand and onto his Frette linens.

 

He was going to do it this time. He was going to find the son of a bitch and twist his fucking head off. He should have done it decades ago. _Could_ have done it a thousand times over.

He stepped a little harder on the accelerator, zooming past the few other cars on the 10 as if they were standing still. He was preoccupied enough with his own troubling thoughts that he nearly missed his exit and his brakes squealed in complaint as he turned the wheel sharply.

This body had been discovered by the campus police. It was half under some shrubbery adjacent to a parking lot, and Spike must certainly have thought himself clever this time, because the building sported a large sign that proclaimed in red that this was the Hertzberg-Davis Forensic Science Center. Well, that would be handy, at least. The crime lab was in that building.

So it wasn’t much of a shock when he saw an especially large crowd clustered around the yellow tape. Most of the people were wearing slacks and button-down shirts, and the whole place had a slightly festive air. He guessed it wasn’t often the crime scene came to them.

Detective Dunn saw him and waved him over. Two dozen people watched him in confusion and envy as he got to duck under the tape and approach the select few who’d been permitted within reach of the victim. Dunn only looked tired, though. The past months had really aged him.

This victim was older than the others. Maybe fifty, Angel thought, although it was possible he was younger. He’d clearly led a hard life. His skin was weather-beaten, his scraggly hair and long beard were mostly gray, and most of his teeth were missing. He wore a pair of ragged jeans and a reddish t-shirt, both of them coated in what appeared to be months’ worth of filth. He had only a single shoe with the toes worn through.

Like the others, he was bound. His gag had been removed for some reason, but had left marks. There were also marks on his neck, two large, ragged punctures. Angel ignored the curious stares as he knelt and sniffed. Spike. No surprise there.

After he stood, he and Dunn ducked back under the tape and Dunn drew him aside a little, out of earshot of the others. Just then, a van with a satellite on the top and a logo for KTTV News on the side pulled into the lot. “Fuck!” Dunn grumbled under his breath.

“You’ve kept this quiet so far,” Angel observed.

“Yeah, well there goes that. Dammit. I bet one of them called them.” He pointed contemptuously at the onlookers.

“What’ll you tell them?”

“I’d like to tell them we have the perp in custody.”

“Working on it,” Angel replied. He didn’t bother to point out that when he caught Spike, all they’d have left to take into custody was a pile of ashes.

“Any leads?”

Angel shook his head. “Anything new from the lab?”

“No. Well, actually, yes, but I don’t think it’s anything very important.”

“What?”

“She had traces of semen on the outside of her shirt, down near the hem.”

Angel grimaced. Spike used to like to rape his victims sometimes, mostly to make them cry. But there’d been no sign that he was doing that now. “What’d the guys in the lab make of vampire semen?”

Dunn shrugged. “Nothing. They just said it was human. Maybe you can’t tell the difference after a while…all the little wigglers are dead anyway. Or maybe it wasn’t even his. She was a pro, you know. Anyway, they’re searching CODIS, but my guess is your guy doesn’t exactly have a DNA sample on file.”

“Um, no.” Angel wasn’t actually sure what differences there were between human and vampire spend anyway. He’d always assumed vamps shot blanks, but then there had been Darla and Connor, and—and he didn’t want to think about that now.

 

“Have you seen this man?”

The prostitute—a tall woman with huge tits who Angel was fairly certain was not biologically female—glanced at the drawing. “No, sugar. Wouldn’t mind if I did, though. Pretty.”

“Hope you don’t. He’s a killer.”

Her eyes widened. “Is that the Icepick Killer?”

Angel sighed. “He’s a suspect, yes.”

“I heard about him on tv. Who is he?”

“He’s…nobody. Look, if you see him, or you know anyone who has, will you call me? My number’s on the flier. He might have changed his appearance. He has an English accent, though, and he’s really shitty at hiding that.”

She nodded and stuffed the paper into her purse. “Are you a cop? ‘Cause you don’t look like no cop.”

“I’m a private investigator.”

“Oh.” She batted her false eyelashes at him. “Wanna investigate something? I’ll give you a professional discount.”

“Um, thanks, but no. Just call if you see him, and stay the fuck away from him, okay?”

“Sure thing, sugar.”

Angel continued walking for a few more blocks, speaking briefly with all the girls he passed and giving them his handouts. None of them had seen Spike. There was a bar here, a crappy place with a crooked Budweiser sign out front and the smell of urine and stale beer inside. The few customers turned away from the grainy television screen to stare at him as he crossed the floor. He wasn’t exactly dressed like the locals. But nobody said anything, and the bartender silently sold him a shot of Jack Daniels, which Angel took to a dirty table in the back.

He set his stack of papers in front of him and looked morosely down at the sketch. He’d had to do it from memory, of course, but he thought it was a pretty good likeness. It’s not like he hadn’t spent years and years seeing that face, after all. He’d captured the scar on the left eyebrow, those sharp cheekbones, the pointy chin, the full lips, the—

Fuck.

With a quiet groan, he buried his face in his hands.

“Hey.”

His head snapped up. The girl standing there looked a little nervous. She was short and very slender, with the most gorgeous café-au-lait skin and huge doe eyes. She was clutching one of his fliers in her hand. “Yes?”

“My girlfriend said you were looking for this dude?”

“Yeah. Have you seen him?”

“I think so. He has an accent, right?” Angel sat up very straight, instantly very alert, and nodded. “But it was a while ago.”

“When?”

“Back in late March, early April.” That was nearly nine months earlier. “I know it was then, ‘cause just after that I went into rehab, you know?”

Angel motioned to her to sit down, and she did. “You want something to drink?” he asked.

But she shook her head. “No, thanks. I ain’t drinking either. I’m trying to fly straight. If I can stay clean for a year, my therapist will okay me for the operation, you know?” She mimed a scissors snipping with her slender fingers and Angel winced.

“Yeah, uh, okay. Tell me about when you saw him.” He pointed at the paper, which she still held tightly.

She set it down and smoothed it with her hand, looking at it rather than him as she spoke. “It was over near 39th and Western. I was on the stroll, you know? There’s a liquor store there, and I saw him inside it. He stood out, ‘cause there ain’t a lot of white boys ‘round there, and he’s really white, you know?”

“What was he doing?”

“Not much. Just talking to the clerk. I think he’d just bought something, ‘cause he had a plastic bag in his hand, you know?”

“What was he saying?”

“Nothin’ much. They was talking about sports, I think. And then he said goodbye and walked by me. He said ‘Hello, love,’ like that, only with an accent, you know? And he smiled.” She shrugged. “That’s all.”

“He didn’t try to pick you up?”

“No. He didn’t seem that interested. Maybe I ain’t his type.”

She was, though, Angel thought. And Spike wouldn’t have particularly cared that she had a dick.

“That’s it? Did you see him after that?”

She shook her head. “Nah. Like I said, I went into rehab, and since then I been staying away from there, you know.”

“Okay. Thanks. You’ve been helpful. If you see him again give me a call, okay?”

She stood. “Yeah, I will.”

She started to walk away, but he called, “Wait.” As she paused, he pulled out his wallet and took out a pair of fifties, which he held out to her. “Here. To, uh, help pay for the surgery, okay?”

She smiled, revealing small, perfect teeth. “Thanks.”

 

The clerk at Starlite Liquor glared at Angel suspiciously.

“I am causing no trouble. See? Quiet. No trouble.” He waved his hand around at the store in general. He was right, it was quiet. The only one else in the store was a thin elderly man in a tan jacket.

“I’m a PI, not a cop. Cause all the trouble you want, I don’t care. But I’m looking for someone.”

The clerk kept his eyes narrowed, but he relaxed a little. “Who?”

Angel held out one of the fliers. “Him.”

The clerk took it and peered at it closely before handing it back. “Why are you searching for him?”

“He’s…a suspect. In some murders.”

The man shook his head. “No, not him. He is no killer.”

“So you know him?” Angel couldn’t help letting some of his excitement creep into his voice.

“He was a customer for a week or two. Very nice man. Clean, good manners. He always bought Jack Daniels and Marlboros. Every night he bought this.”

“Did he tell you where he was staying?”

“No. We only talked about cricket and curry, and a little bit about London.” He smiled. “My brother lives in London and I have visited him two times. Very nice city. Cold, though.”

“What was he driving?”

“I think he walked.”

“Did he ever come in with anyone? Leave with anyone?”

“No. It was only him.”

Angel rubbed at his eyes with one hand. “How about the girls out there on the street? Did he pick them up?”

“I have nothing to do with those girls. I tell them to leave the front of my store, they always come back.”

“I told you, I don’t care about that. Did he pick them up?”

“No.”

“How long since you’ve seen him?”

The clerk thought for a minute. “It has been…it was March, I think. Yes, March.”

Shit.

“Can you tell me anything else about him?”

“He was a very nice man.”

“Yeah, okay.” Angel sighed. “Look, if he shows up, please call me.” He tapped his finger on the number on the flier.

The clerk nodded sourly. “He is not your killer, sir. I know this. He is a—“

“I know. A very nice man. Thanks,” Angel said, and left.

 

His first real lead, and it went nowhere. Nobody else in that neighborhood admitted to having seen Spike. There was a seedy motel a couple blocks away, and Angel was pretty sure that when he waved the drawing, he saw a momentary spark of recognition in the desk clerk’s eyes, but even an offered bribe produced nothing.

Trying to be surreptitious, Angel tried sniffing for any traces of Spike’s scent. But a large, well-dressed white guy was pretty conspicuous around there, and, after a couple cops in a patrol car gave him a wary look, Angel gave it up. Wherever Spike was now, it probably wasn’t around there.

Angel barely beat the sunrise back to the Hyperion. Once inside, he paced restlessly, picking up books and putting them down, sometimes flopping into his chair to flip aimlessly through tv channels. Finally, hoping to soothe himself, he drew a hot bath and sank deeply into the water. It was relaxing, but he kept catching his hand wandering to his groin. He’d snatch it away, only to discover it there again a few moments later. It wasn’t that he had anything against jerking off—hell, his right hand was just about the only action he’d had for over a century, and wasn’t _that_ depressing—but he knew if he gave into the temptation, it would be images of Spike that danced through his mind.

“Goddamit!” he yelled. His voice echoed back, mocking him. Spike was haunting him more thoroughly now than when he’d been an actual ghost.

He tipped his head back against the edge of the tub and closed his eyes, and tried to visualize ramming a stake into Spike’s chest. The way the smug look on the little bastard’s face would turn to shock, right before he left this plane of existence forever. Angel would spit in his dust and then move on, finally free forever of that nuisance. No more murders. No more stealing his stuff and calling him names. No more—

No more nothing.

Abruptly, he was crying, great, heaving cries that bounced off the walls and multiplied around him. It was the first time he’d cried since the alley after the battle, when he held Connor’s broken body in his arms. Naked in the tub, he finally admitted to himself that this loss was nearly as great.

 

[Chapter Four](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/76472.html)


	5. One of Your Kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Several years post-NFA, Angel investigates a series of killings. Is Spike the culprit or a victim?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fic is complete and I'll post daily. It has 10 chapters plus the prologue and an epilogue. Banners and icons by the incomparable [](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/profile)[**blondebitz**](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/)!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[one of your kind](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/one%20of%20your%20kind), [spangel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spangel)  
  
---|---  
  
_ **One of Your Kind, 4/10** _

**Title: **One of Your Kind   
**Chapter:** 4/10   
**Pairing:** Spike/Angel   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Warnings:** non-con, torture, angst, language, m/m   
**Summary:** Several years post-NFA, Angel investigates a series of killings. Is Spike the culprit or a victim?   
**Author's Note:** The fic is complete and I'll post daily. It has 10 chapters plus the prologue and an epilogue. Banners and icons by the incomparable [](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/profile)[**blondebitz**](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/)!

[Previous chapters here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=One+of+Your+Kind&filter=all)

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/0005p542/)  
---  
  
**  
CHAPTER FOUR**

 

“Say it again. Louder.”

“Please, master, fuck me.”

“You’re disgusting. Clean yourself up first.” Master set a plastic bucket full of water on the floor beside Spike, and tossed a cloth down beside it.

Spike knew what he was expected to do; his master had already trained him. He raised his head from the floor and straightened his back. He dipped the rag into the water, which was ice cold, as he’d expected, and smelled faintly of Ivory soap. He wiped his face first, washing away the dried blood and tears and snot. The water made him shiver, but still, it felt good to get the itchy mess off his face. He wished master would allow him to do something about his hair, too. It was long and matted and completely filthy.

When his face was reasonably clean, he spread his knees apart and cleansed his groin and then, as master watched avidly, reached between his legs and wiped between his cheeks.

“Make sure you get that dirty little hole,” master said, and Spike carefully pressed the rag to his anus, wincing slightly as he touched torn and bruised skin.

When he was finished, he set the cloth on the floor and got down on all fours. Master tromped over, and Spike tried not to cower. He almost succeeded. Master picked up the bucket and upended it over him, drenching his back thoroughly and making him shiver.

“Thank me for letting you bathe.”

“Thank you, master.”

Spike let his head hang low. He didn’t want to see master’s face. The look in his eyes frightened him now. It reminded him of Dru on one of her bad days, the ones where she’d scream that the flowers were trying to kill her, and the only thing that would soothe her was a young child to hold and coo over and then snack on.

Master waited silently for most of the water to drip away, then walked around until he was behind Spike. He toed gently at Spike’s arse and Spike winced again. Master had beaten him with a switch earlier and his flesh was still raw and stinging.

“Up against the wall,” master said.

So Spike stood and turned and faced the wall. He’d memorized it by now, every tiny crack and bump. He knew where little spots of moisture were most likely to form, knew exactly where to sit so that the discomfort against his spine was the least severe. He also knew how far to stand from the wall, and how to place his palms against it and spread his legs and arch his back.

Master smacked the flat of his palm against one outthrust cheek, then the other. There was the soft sound of a zipper being undone, the tiny susurration of skin stroking skin, and then master’s hard cock was pressing insistently against him. No slick, of course, and no preparation. Master seemed to think Spike’s blood served well enough as a lubricant. Spike couldn’t help a slight groan as master thrust into him, but then he clenched his jaw and shut his eyes and wished he could block out the sound of master’s soft grunts as well.

It didn’t take long. Spike expected he ought to be thankful for that, anyhow. Within only a minute or two, master said, “Tell me what you are.”

Spike replied, “Your slave, master.” As usual, those words were enough, and master grunted more loudly, then sighed and pulled out.

“What do you say?” he asked, slightly breathlessly.

“Thank you for fucking me, master.”

Master laughed and slapped him one more time. Spike remained unmoving as master refastened his trousers, then dragged the corpse out of the cell and locked the door behind him. Only when master pulled the body completely out of the room, shut the door, and then turned off the light did Spike allow himself to collapse onto the floor, to become enveloped in the darkness.

 

He’d fought it at first, of course. He’d fought everything. Well, except feeding. After watching that first girl die by inches, he’d hardly hesitated to give the others a quick and relatively merciful end. He wasn’t certain whether to feel relieved that master fed him so rarely, or to wallow in misery over the near-constant hollowness in his belly.

But he’d refused at first to call his captor master. He’d refused to play his games, begging to be debased, thanking him for being used, contorting his body into humiliating and uncomfortable postures. He’d struggled when master beat him, and he sure as bloody hell didn’t just bend over and get buggered.

At first.

But fighting only brought him pain, and in the end master always got what he wanted anyhow. It wasn’t as if Spike had any dignity left to protect.

If he’d had any hope at all of escape, he likely would have struggled longer. But master was never going to let him go, and it was clear he couldn’t get out on his own. And of course no bleeding rescue party was going to come breaking down the doors. So he might as well draw what tiny comforts he could and avoid as much agony as possible.

The only thing that kept him from going completely mad was the knowledge that sooner or later master would likely finally dust him. And if he didn’t, well, master was only mortal, and some day he’d die, leaving Spike to molder slowly in the dark.

 

When William Pratt was fifteen years old, he and his friend Thomas Ackerman had slipped over to the south bank, where an encampment of Gypsies had been set up. The boys had considered themselves quite daring for it, and it had seemed almost like another world to William, exotic and exciting. Everywhere he looked, children ran about with bare feet, while dark young men groomed horses or mended pots and pans and women in layers of bright clothing tended to cooking fires or washed laundry. The smells were unfamiliar as well, nothing like the bland overboiled food he was used to.

Most of the Gypsies watched them with blank faces, but a few called to them, cajoling them to buy this thing or that. Thomas stopped and bought a necklace of colored glass beads for Olivia Nisbett, a pretty girl with ginger ringlets whom he’d lately taken a fancy to. Privately, William thought that the quiet girl would never wear gaudy jewelry like that, but he didn’t say so. She’d likely fancy the necklace better than she would the poetry William wrote, which always made the girls giggle and the boys tease.

A gruff man was selling some tooled leather items from the back of a cart, rather nice, William thought, and he was considering buying a small purse for his mother when a bony hand landed on his shoulder. He whirled around to discover an old woman, short and thin as a reed, with her weathered skin stretched tightly over her sharp face. “Tell your fortune, young sir?” she said. Her voice was surprisingly youthful.

“N-no, thank you,” he stammered. He didn’t hold with the claptrap at all.

But Thomas pushed him roughly. “Come, Pratt. Let’s see what she has to say. Perhaps she can tell you whether you’ll pass your exams next week.”

William rolled his eyes. He was brighter than Thomas and they both knew it. But Thomas always got higher marks because William’s mind tended to wander. It vexed his mother no end—she had high hopes that her only son would become a distinguished barrister—but William couldn’t seem to control it. As soon as he sat down, he’d start thinking about the book he’d been reading the night before, or the play he’d seen the previous weekend, or his uncle’s promise to take him by rail to Betws-y-Coed in July, or the way Daniel Rawson’s pretty mouth quirked when he was concentrating on something—the last thought not welcome at all—and he’d have to drag his mind back to the task at hand. Sometimes his mother would throw up her hands and exclaim, “I don’t know what’s to become of you if you won’t apply yourself, William!” And he’d promise to try harder.

Thomas shoved him again and before William could protest, the woman grabbed his elbow and led him to a small caravan several yards away. He had to duck to enter, and the inside was nothing like so mysterious as he’d imagined. Just a small pallet against one wall, and several closed cupboards of painted wood, two shelves with lanterns, and a tiny table and two chairs in the middle. Thomas started to come in, too, but the woman placed a hand against his chest. “You stay out here,” she ordered, and then shut the door in his face.

She gestured at one of the chairs and William obediently sat. He felt uneasy about this whole thing, but he couldn’t very well stop now, not if he wanted to maintain any pride. The woman sat across from him. “One shilling,” she said. He frowned. It was rather a lot for nothing. But he dug in his pocket and pulled out his purse and, eyeing her slightly suspiciously, took out a silver coin, which he dropped in her outstretched palm. She tucked it away somewhere inside her blouse.

He expected her to take out some cards or a glass gazing globe, but she only stared at him. He stared back. Despite her apparent age, her hair was jet black, long and glossy, and her dark eyes were dagger-sharp.

After several long minutes, she said, “Give me your hand, Master Pratt.” He was momentarily shocked that she knew his name, but then remembered that Thomas had used it earlier. He stuck out his hand and she took it in both of hers. She didn’t look at the palm, but just held it between her hot, dry claws. She furrowed her brows and closed her eyes as if she were concentrating on trying to hear a conversation far away.

Then she gasped and dropped his hand like a hot coal. She opened her eyes and glared at him so fiercely he was a bit afraid, and he quickly snatched his hand back and into his lap. “Monster!” she hissed.

He blinked at her in alarm.

But then she seemed to calm. She extended a single long finger and tapped it on his chest, just over his heart. He was too startled to move.

“This! This will be the death of you, young William. More than once. And the death of thousands more. But then it will also save so many. It will save the cursed one, and it will save you as well.”

“What…what do you mean?” he stuttered, momentarily forgetting he didn’t believe in this nonsense.

She tapped him again, harder this time. “You’ve a good enough head, but your heart will always win. Remember, it will lead you into darkness and fire, but it may also lead you to peace. Sorrow and joy, Master William. Untold sorrow and joy.”

She stood then, and motioned him to his feet. He stumbled out of the caravan, speechless, and heard the door shut firmly behind him.

Thomas was waiting for him just outside, eyeing a trio of pretty girls who were carrying baskets of clothing toward the river. “What did she say?” he asked. “Your true love’s name? Where to seek your fortune?”

William found himself strangely loathe to reveal her true words. “She told me to stay away from disreputable rogues called Ackerman,” he said.

Thomas laughed and punched him lightly on the shoulder, and William countered with a soft fist to his friend’s belly. They walked off, their arms thrown companionably around each other’s shoulders, daring one another to try something from the foodsellers down the way.

 

Spike idly used a finger to draw a heart shape on the filthy floor. He couldn’t see it, of course, in the absolute blackness, but he knew it was there.

He’d dreamt of the Gypsy woman the last time he’d slept. He’d forgotten about her, all these many decades since. She must have had the sight, like Dru, because she’d been right, hadn’t she? His stupid heart had brought him to that humiliation in front of Cecily, and from there straight into Drusilla’s lovely arms. It had kept him at her side as they slaughtered their way across Europe, Asia, and the Americas, and finally to Sunnydale. It had brought him to a Slayer, and to his soul, and to a fiery end in a hole beneath the ground. But then, dead as it was, it wasn’t done yet, because it had kept him at Angel’s side through a hopeless battle and beyond. And then it had finally brought him to LA, and the fate that now entrapped him.

Death and sorrow untold? Most certainly. But what about joy?

There had certainly been moments of happiness, brief minutes or hours of delight as he’d fought exhilarating fights or lay wrapped in the arms of someone he loved. But never truly joy, he didn’t think. Perhaps a demon could not feel that emotion.

And peace? Never.

Well, it was quiet here, except for the brief times master paid a visit. Just the pointless puffs of breath from Spike’s lungs, and the small jingling of his chains, and sometimes the slight scraping of skin against concrete. He thought the chamber might be soundproofed, because he never had any idea master was near until the light switched on, and master certainly didn’t seem concerned that someone might hear the screams. The dampness of the place and the lack of windows led him to suspect he was underground, but he couldn’t be certain. And of course he had no idea whether he was still in Los Angeles. He didn’t know how long he’d been unconscious before master brought him here. He could be anywhere. Could even be in hell, for all he knew. At times that seemed the most credible explanation of all.

 

Master had a new game.

He’d tied the boy to the cell bars, out of Spike’s reach. The boy’s eyes were wild, the whites showing all the way around his irises, and he breathed rapidly and noisily through his nose. He was cleaner than the usual, except he’d pissed himself when master told Spike to put on his game face. Spike tried not to look at him. It didn’t do him any good to dwell on the faces of the people he’d be killing; they tended to haunt him when he tried to sleep.

Despite his self-disgust, saliva pooled in his mouth, causing him to swallow often. He was hungry, of course. Ravenous. And his body knew he’d soon be fed.

Right now, though, he knelt, the hard floor grating against his knees. His legs were spread and his hands were clasped behind his back.

Master sat in his chair. He was wearing new blue jeans and a plain white t-shirt. He’d put on more weight lately, Spike thought. Good. Maybe the bastard would have a coronary.

“What are you?” master asked.

Spike swallowed. “Your slave, master.”

“What else?”

Spike blinked in confusion. “I…I don’t—“ He was interrupted by a jolt from the collar. Over his own screams, he could barely hear the muffled noises of alarm that the boy made, too.

When he’d caught his breath and regained sufficient control to get back on his knees, master smiled at him. “You’re a slut, too, aren’t you? Love to have things rammed into that hungry little hole?”

“Yes, master.”

“Yes, what?”

“I’m a slut, master.”

Master stared at him thoughtfully for a while, and Spike couldn’t help but tremble. When master finally said, “Grab your dick, slave,” Spike was almost relieved. Just more humiliation on the table now, it seemed.

“Jerk off.”

Spike did. He didn’t get hard, though. He was too starved and hurting and despairing for his body to respond to his own touch, and it wasn’t as if there was anything about this situation that turned him on. But he kept pulling at himself until he felt sore and raw.

“What’s the matter, slut? Can’t get it up without a cock up your ass?”

Spike wasn’t sure what answer would be less likely to get him punished. “N-no, master,” he whispered.

Master made a huffing, amused sound. “Turn around. Bend over and spread your cheeks, show dinner what you did.”

He obeyed, and the boy moaned when he saw the state of Spike’s rectum. Master had buggered him with an aluminum baseball bat not too long before, and Spike had simply slumped on the floor, unresisting. Without any blood, he hadn’t healed at all.

Master cackled. “See what happens when you’re greedy?”

With Spike’s face pressed to the floor, he couldn’t see master now. But he heard him stand, and then he heard the slight clatter of approaching footsteps. Master slapped his upturned rump.

“What should I do with you now, slave?”

“Fuck me, please, master.”

“Nah. Too messy. Maybe later. Any other ideas?”

“Feed me please, master.”

“Ah. Now there’s a plan.” Master grasped Spike’s hair until he was upright on his knees again, then twisted him around so he was facing the kid. “Does that look tasty?”

“Yes, master.”

The boy started crying.

Master stroked Spike’s tangled hair, and Spike couldn’t help it. He leaned into the touch. He detested the wanker, and yet, and yet…the gentle touch felt nice. Perhaps, he thought, if this was to be his lot, he could try to enjoy these crumbs of comfort. Perhaps if he was very, very good, master might be kind like this more often.

He swallowed the bile of self-hatred and waited for master to bring him his food.

 

He was curled on his side, one arm pillowing his head. His stomach was full and his body was healing, but the bitter taste of semen coated his tongue. Not for the first time, he wished he had something to wash it away. Like a bottle or two of Jack. Or perhaps just a vial of holy water.

Lately, he even dreamt of master, and he was having trouble remembering any of his existence outside this room. Maybe it would be better if he just forgot, just settled in as if this was all he had ever been. Maybe soon he would.

For now, though, he still struggled to replay his memories. And now he was thinking of Angel. Not Angelus, with whom his history was mottled with equal parts abuse and elation, but Angel, the brooding pouf himself.

It hadn’t been his choice to get resurrected in the middle of his grandsire’s office, and then when he tried to get his incorporeal self the hell out of there, he hadn’t been able to. By the time he had a body again, there was the bit with the bloody prophecy, and then the barmy Slayer and the time it had taken to regain full use of his hands, and then the sodding evil lawyers, and he’d just…stayed.

Not that he had anywhere else in particular to go at that point, or anyone else to go to, but still, he could have found his own adventures elsewhere. He didn’t, though. He’d made excuses to himself at the time. He was needed in LA, what with another impending apocalypse and all. And he had to keep an eye on Angel, make sure the pillock didn’t go after Buffy again. Right.

After the battle when nearly all was lost, he’d been slightly more honest with himself. What kept him with Angel then, he thought, was the look on Angel’s face in the alley as he mourned the death of his son, the heartbroken wails that echoed off the blood-smeared bricks and charred pavement. And that wasn’t exactly untrue.

But there was more to his staying than duty or jealousy or pity, and he’d only once permitted a realization of his true motives to slip through.

It was after that bit with the sailor bloke. Lawson. Angel had been brooding again, of course, moping about as if he was the only one who’d ever turned someone after having regained his soul. As if Spike hadn’t done those folks in Sunnydale while his head was a mess and the First was prancing around. Spike hadn’t pointed that out, though. It wouldn’t have made any difference. In Angel’s eyes, his own burden would always be weightier, his purpose more noble.

Tosser.

Spike had walked around the desk and opened the drawer where Angel kept his good whiskey, and he’d pulled out the bottle and a glass. He’d poured a generous few fingers, downed it one go, and refilled before handing it to Angel.

Angel glowered at him.

“What? Don’t want my cooties? Afraid you’ll catch something?”

With a small snarl, Angel grabbed the glass and swallowed the fiery liquid before slamming the glass down so hard it cracked. Spike had simply pushed the bottle closer to him then.

“Getting drunk doesn’t solve anything, Spike.”

“Neither does hanging about with your great forehead all wrinkled. Least if you drink enough, you might feel better for a while.”

“I don’t want to feel better!”

Spike laughed. “Yeah, ‘cause wallowing in misery will bring that poor sod back, better’n new.”

Angel lurched to his feet so quickly that Spike stumbled backwards a bit. Angel loomed over him, his hands balled into fists. “Go away!”

“You want to hit me, arsehole? Will that make you feel better? Go ahead and sodding dust me, get rid of another of your mistakes, yeah?” Spike was shouting by then as well.

Angel lifted one of his ham-sized fists and drew it back before pausing and then letting it fall to his side. “Go away,” he said, quietly this time, and then turned away. He walked to the window and then gazed out the necrotinted glass at the smoggy skyline.

Spike had watched his grandsire’s broad, slightly hunched back for a while. Then he stepped across the room until he was beside him and looked out, too. “You’re not a god, you know. Just a demon jammed into an imperfect man, with a soul rammed in there too. You’re doing more than most.”

“It’s not enough.”

Spike shrugged, even though he knew Angel wasn’t looking at him. “It’s never enough, is it? So you do what you can.”

They were both silent for a time. Finally, in a voice barely over a whisper, Angel said, “You’re not a mistake.”

Spike had turned to him in surprise. For 120 years, Angel had made it clear that he was sorry that he’d let Drusilla turn and keep him. Even back when Angelus was in charge, Spike knew he was only a convenient hole to fuck when Darla was in one of her snits and Dru was especially off, or a handy punching bag when Angelus needed to vent some steam. Never once had Angel hinted that he felt anything about Spike but disdain and regret.

Deep inside of Spike, something shifted a bit, a tiny flutter of warmth where there’d only been ice before.

He grasped Angel’s shoulders, twisted them towards himself, and then leaned up to plant a kiss on his startled grandsire’s lips. Angel froze. But when he didn’t move away, Spike increased the intensity of their contact, pressing his lips a bit more insistently and then attempting to insert his tongue into the other mouth.

Perhaps it was just in amazement, but Angel’s lips had parted, permitting Spike entry. Spike was still on edge, more than half-expecting Angel to come to his senses and start beating him, but instead he felt all the tension flow out of the big body that was near him, and then Angel was kissing him back, wrapping his arms around Spike in a tight embrace.

Spike moaned. Angel’s cock hardened against his and they ground their crotches together like a pair of teenagers.

It didn’t take long after that for them to shed their clothes. Spike had only a brief moment to admire Angel’s magnificent body—a body that was as beautiful then as it has been a century earlier—and then Spike was on his back on the carpet with Angel on top of him like a huge, heavy blanket.

Bloody hell, it felt good. He’d had men now and then over the years. Hell, it had only been a few months earlier when he’d spent a week or two fucking “Doyle.” Who’d of course turned out to be a scheming lawyer, only using Spike for his stupid go at vengeance. He’d been a lovely lay, though, pretty and eager, equally content to bend over and wave his firm arse, or to bugger Spike until the vampire could hardly stand.

But he hadn’t been Angel, whose cold, solid body felt so right against Spike. Felt like home.

As Angel writhed against him, meaty hand wrapped around both their leaking cocks, fangs nipping lightly at Spike’s shoulder and neck, that was when Spike had admitted to himself the real reason he stayed. Not because of the shagging, but because of _this,_ the reality of the great, moody git atop him, because of the faint hope of receiving affection from the vampire he loved.

Shortly after that realization broke through, Angel squeezed just a bit tighter and sank his teeth in just a bit deeper, and all rational thought became impossible. Spike clutched at Angel’s ass, arched his back, and threw his head back. When Angel cried out and Spike felt cold liquid on his belly, that was enough for him, and he came so hard he nearly bucked Angel off of him with his spasms.

They stilled, Angel draped across Spike’s body in a not uncomfortable heap. When they’d caught their breaths, Angel slowly climbed to his feet and held out a sticky hand to help Spike to his. They squeezed into Angel’s small private loo, where Angel dampened towels for both of them and they cleaned themselves off. And then, still without saying a word, they pulled their clothing back on.

Now that the moment had passed, Spike thought Angel might decide to be angry after all. But he wasn’t. He only said, “Spike, we can’t—“

“I know. It was just a thing, yeah? Cold comfort.”

Angel closed his eyes and nodded.

Spike turned and walked to the door, but as he reached for the knob, Angel spoke once more. “You’re not a mistake,” he said again.

Spike had buried the epiphany he’d reached that day deep inside his consciousness. He and Angel had gone on, fighting with each other and beside each other, until Spike couldn’t stand any longer to be reminded of the difference between what he wanted, what he’d almost had for that one afternoon, and the reality of Angel’s contempt. So he’d left, hoping that perhaps absence would help, and perhaps he’d even find someone else to fill the longing in him. It hadn’t, and he hadn’t.

 

 

 

 

Now, though, all alone in the cold blackness, he decided it was finally safe to make a confession to himself. So he did. He loved Angel. Had all along, really. His willful heart again, always wanting what it couldn’t or shouldn’t have. At least now he could pretend it was only his imprisonment that denied him, and not the fact that Angel would never want him back.

 

He was managing.

Yeah, his conscience tore at him over the murders he was committing. And he was wagging his arse and begging like a little bitch, and was beginning to feel bloody thankful when master petted him or fucked him or even beat him, because at least that was _something_, and something was so much better than the nothing in which he was buried the rest of the time.

But Spike had always been adaptable. If that meant being a good little slave, he’d be a good little slave. He’d survive, because that’s what he did.

So he was managing. Until the girl.

She was young. They were almost all young, of course, all but that vagrant master had brought a while back. But this one was only a child, perhaps nine or ten. Still had gaps where her baby teeth had fallen out. She was wearing a pink t-shirt with a picture of some pop star on it and a pair of jeans. Her hair was short and done up in pigtails with little frilly ribbons.

“No,” Spike whispered when master dragged her into the cage. “Oh, no, please master, no.”

Her eyes were squeezed tightly shut. Good, Spike thought. Don’t look. Don’t see.

Master dumped her on the floor a few feet from Spike, and she curled into as tight a ball as the ropes would allow. “You’re not turning into a picky eater, now, are you, slave?” His voice was light and jovial.

“No, master, please.” Spike sank to his knees in supplication. “She’s not…not like the others. You said, you said the others were trash.” Spike hadn’t believed that—they were still living, feeling people, whatever their station in life—but he hoped perhaps this might sway his master. “This one, she’s an innocent. A baby. Please—“

But master’s face darkened and he kicked viciously at Spike’s groin. “She’s not a baby! A baby is what my Lori was carrying, what you fuckers murdered! This is only some brat, waiting to get old enough to prowl the streets like the rest of them.”

Spike had grunted at the impact and curled into himself. But he couldn’t give up yet. “She’s a little girl, master. Has family who loves her. Has—“

Master’s screamed inarticulately and kicked again, this time connecting with Spike’s nose. Spike’s vision sparked and popped and he was abruptly choking on his own blood. “Don’t!” he cried in a garbled voice, but master pulled his blade out of his trousers, flicked it open, rammed it into the girl’s neck and yanked it back out again.

She screeched horribly into her gag and blood fountained everywhere. Master turned around and stormed out of the cell, slamming it shut behind him. A moment later the other door shut, too, and the light went out.

Sobbing uncontrollably, Spike crawled until he found the girl’s squirming body. He gathered her into his arms and cradled her against himself and cooed softly at her. “’S all right, pet. No more pain. Nothing more to be scared of. No more. No more.” And then, cleanly and efficiently, he snapped her neck.

[Chapter Five](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/76773.html)


	6. One of Your Kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Several years post-NFA, Angel investigates a series of killings. Is Spike the culprit or a victim?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fic is complete and I'll post daily. It has 10 chapters plus the prologue and an epilogue.

  
  
  
**Entry tags:**|   
[one of your kind](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/one%20of%20your%20kind), [spangel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spangel)  
  
---|---  
  
_**One of Your Kind, 5/10**_  
**  
Title: **One of Your Kind   
**Chapter:** 5/10   
**Pairing:** Spike/Angel   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Warnings:** non-con, torture, angst, language, m/m   
**Summary:** Several years post-NFA, Angel investigates a series of killings. Is Spike the culprit or a victim?   
**Author's Note:** The fic is complete and I'll post daily. It has 10 chapters plus the prologue and an epilogue.

**I'm very excited to announce that today we get a banner and icon by the incomparable **[](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/profile)[**blondebitz**](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/)**_ plus_ a stunning new banner by **[](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)**! Thank you so very much, my dears!!**

[Previous chapters here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=One+of+Your+Kind&filter=all)

 

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/0005yz3y/g63)  
---  
  
**  
CHAPTER FIVE**

 

The child was too much.

The other victims, that was bad, and Angel fully planned to dust Spike for what he’d done to them. But they’d all led the kind of lives that put them at risk for early deaths. That didn’t make their lives any less valuable, and it sure as hell didn’t excuse Spike for what he’d done to them. But still, to some extent, at least they were victims of the choices they’d made.

But the little girl.

Her name was Alyssa Franklin and she was in fourth grade. She lived only four blocks from her school, but still, one Tuesday afternoon she never made it home. Angel had seen the Amber Alert on tv that night and hadn’t connected her disappearance to Spike. After all, it had been in broad daylight, and she wasn’t anything like the other victims he’d chosen. He’d never hunted young kids, not unless Dru wheedled him into it. Too easy, he’d said, and not enough blood.

But then Dunn had called him three nights later, and Angel had driven almost all the way up to Santa Clarita. Dunn was waiting for him in the parking lot of a strip mall. His face was haggard as he looked down on the small corpse.

“I wasn’t so sure about this one at first,” the detective said. “But then…well, take a look.”

As he’d done so often in the past months, Angel knelt and looked closely at the body. There was a pair of puncture wounds over the girl’s carotid. Interestingly, these were neater than those in the other victims. These looked very precise and clean, as if the vampire had been especially careful as he inserted his fangs. In fact, they barely resembled a killing bite, but more the kind of wound a vampire might give his lover in the throes of passion. Which was disgusting, given the age of the victim.

Even stranger, however, was the larger gash in the girl’s throat, which was clearly made by a blade of some kind and not a tooth. Why the hell would Spike stab her? Not only was it unnecessary, but it was wasteful as well. Maybe he hadn’t been very hungry this time, but still, it didn’t make sense.

Nor did the next thing he noticed, which was that her head was set at an odd and unnatural angle. He looked up at Dunn. “Her neck…when was it broken?”

Dunn shrugged. “We’ll need the ME to tell us. But look closely at her eyes and face—see those little purplish spots?”

Angel peered closer. She had blue eyes. “Yeah.”

“Petechial hemorrhages. That’s a sign of asphyxiation, usually. But hey, I’m no doctor.”

Angel stood and shook his head slowly.

“Was it him?” Dunn asked.

“Yeah.” Angel had caught a particularly strong scent of Spike as he’d bent over to examine her face.

“How’d he snatch her during the day?”

“He could have a human helping him, I guess. But he’s old enough, he can withstand a few moments of sun without completely combusting. He’s probably driving around in a car with blacked-out windows. He’s done it before.”

“Don’t suppose you have any idea why—“

“No,” Angel replied shortly. “Just…part of his game, I guess.”

“Some game.”

“Yeah.”

 

He’d already been spending most of his waking hours hunting fruitlessly for Spike, but now he intensified his efforts. He dragged himself into bars and liquor stores, through the sewers and tunnels, down streets frequented by others who roamed the night. He left fliers everywhere. He spread beatings more liberally, too, and also promises of rewards. He still had plenty of money stashed away and he’d be willing to spend it if it meant catching Spike.

But nothing came of any of it. Not a single fucking thing.

He dreaded the sound of his cell phone, knowing it would probably be just another call from Dunn. Another victim.

The news talked so endlessly about where and when the Icepick Killer might strike next that in a fit of temper one afternoon, Angel heaved his tv out the window. It didn’t make him feel any better. And then he had to move to a different room, because he didn’t want to bother fixing the broken window.

It wasn’t only that he was enraged. He could admit that now. He was also hurt. Betrayed. Because sometimes, even if for just a moment or two, he’d thought that maybe Spike—No. No point going there. Because Angel knew that even without a soul, if Spike loved someone he wouldn’t intentionally hurt that person. Accidentally, out of the misguided intentions of a demon, yes. But not like this. Look at how he’d cared for Dru all those years, even when she was faithless to him again and again. And look at what he’d done for Buffy, caring for Dawn when Buffy was dead, fighting at her side, dragging himself all the way to Africa and fighting for his soul.

Obviously, Spike hated his guts.

Who could blame him, really?

Those were the thoughts that looped endlessly through his head as he spent long hours searching and as he thrashed restlessly in his bed. In fact, they were repeating for the millionth time as he sat in the slightly grungy bar, watching a pair of Lister demons argue good-naturedly over a baseball game. His phone rang then. He’d given in months ago and bought a new one, because every time the Sex Pistols played to tell him another body had been found, he felt like Spike was mocking him. The new one just rang. Boring, but less likely to make him throw the thing against the wall.

He sighed and was about to flip it open when he caught sight of the phone number. It wasn’t Dunn’s.

“Hello?”

“Uh, hi. Is this Angel?” The voice was male, with a neutral California accent.

“Yes,” Angel replied guardedly.

“I saw one of your fliers. I think I might have some information that could help.”

If Angel’s heart could beat it would have started racing. But he tried to keep his voice even, because this could just be someone looking for money. “Yeah?” he said. “What?”

“I’d rather discuss it in person. Can we meet?”

What did he have to lose, except some time? “Yeah, sure. How about—“

“How about Arkadia? It’s a bar, over on—“

“I know where it is. When?”

“Tomorrow at eight.”

Angel took a deep breath. Another day of waiting. “How about now? I can—“

“No, no. I can’t get away until tomorrow.”

“Fine. Eight.”

The man hung up without giving his name.

It was probably nothing, but still, Angel felt a stirring of hope. He ignored the tiny part of him that was distressed at the thought of finally catching Spike.

 

It was a long day. Sometimes he talked to himself, just to hear a voice. That didn’t make him crazy, right?

He’d spent many long decades alone, so he thought he’d be used to it. But those few years he’d had with Buffy, then Cordelia and Wes and the others, had got him used to company, to having someone to bounce ideas off of and, well, just pass the time with. Even when Spike had been in the Hyperion with him, when they’d mostly avoided each other except when Spike was baiting him or they were killing something, even then it had been a little comforting to know that someone else was there with him.

He should have just forced Spike to leave after they fought Wolfram &amp; Hart. Maybe that would have avoided whatever events led to the current shitstorm. But…he couldn’t. After every one of his friends was dead because of him, he knew he’d never allow himself the weakness of human friendship again. Spike had been his only chance at companionship.

Fuck.

At 6:05, minutes after the sun had set, Dunn called. Another one. This one was close by, in Hollywood. Angel raced over there and discovered a scene that had grown familiar over the past year: a double handful of uniformed and plainclothes cops clustered around a circle of yellow tape. At least the news crews hadn’t yet arrived. This time they were in the parking lot of a school, and Angel braced himself to find another dead child. It was a sad state of affairs, he reflected, when he was actually relieved to discover the body of an adult.

Dunn glanced up at him. “Hustler. Name’s Donny. Been working the stroll a couple years.”

Donny was a towhead with deeply tanned skin and a muscular build. He was wearing a pair of olive green board shorts and a white tank top. His feet were bare. A shell necklace encircled his neck just below the fang marks. They were ragged again; none of the precision and control that they’d seen in the girl were present here. He smelled of Spike, of course.

Dunn said, “Angel, you have no idea the shit I’m facing over this. Not a single fucking lead, and—“

“I might have something,” Angel interrupted.

The detective’s gaze sharpened. “What?”

“Got a call yesterday, somebody who saw the fliers.” He shrugged. “It could be nothing. But I’m going to go meet him in” –he checked his watch—“forty minutes.”

Dunn chewed on his lip. “It better be something.”

“Yeah.”

He arrived at Arkadia fifteen minutes early. It was a decent place with a human clientele. He chose a seat in the back, facing the door, and ordered a beer that he toyed with more than he drank. It was a Tuesday and there were only a half dozen or so other customers in the place. None of them paid any attention to him, so he guessed his informant wasn’t there yet.

With nothing else to occupy it, his mind wandered, speculating for the ten thousandth time about what the hell had happened to Spike to begin this vendetta, and where he was, and how he was managing to keep himself hidden so well. He had no more answers to this than he did a year ago, and he had to clench his teeth to keep from growling. Even so, the couple sitting nearest him gave him wary looks.

The door to the bar opened, letting in the sound of traffic passing and the scent of exhaust fumes. A man came in. He was tall and had the look of a former athlete gone to seed. But his brown hair was neatly trimmed and his clothes—black trousers, hunter green shirt, long black coat—looked expensive. The man glanced around the bar, quickly caught sight of Angel, and then smiled broadly. He strode confidently over to Angel’s table.

“Angel?” he said when he got there. Angel recognized his voice from the previous day’s phone call.

“Yes.”

The man pulled out a chair and sat down. He was still grinning ear-to-ear, as if this meeting was the best thing to happen to him in ages. Something about him set Angel on edge, but he couldn’t put his finger on what. Maybe it was just the association with Spike.

The man laced his fingers together on the tabletop. He was about to speak when the waitress came by, but he just waved her away with a shake of his head. “So you’re looking for that guy, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you looking for him? Is he the Icepick Killer?”

Angel felt his jaw tighten. “Look, if you’re some kind of reporter or something, and you’re just wasting my time—“

The man held his palms up and chuckled. “No, no. I’m not a reporter. I was just curious, that’s all. It’s not every day a guy gets to help catch a serial killer.”

“You haven’t helped do anything,” Angel growled.

The man only smiled more in the face of Angel’s hostility. “You have no idea, man.”

Angel took a deep breath and tried to overcome the urge to smash the man’s smug face into pulp. “What do you know?” he repeated.

“I saw your guy.”

“When?”

“About two days ago.”

Angel leaned forward. “Where?” he demanded.

“Up the coast a bit, near Carpinteria.”

“Give me the address.”

The man cocked an eyebrow. “Don’t you want to know if it’s the right guy? Or if I’m just yanking your chain? I could be some kind of whacko, you know.”

Angel shut his eyes and counted to five. “Describe him,” he said quietly.

“Let’s see. About five nine or so. Hair used to be bleached all to hell but now it’s grown out. Blue eyes. British accent. Oh,” he leaned forward and lowered his voice, “and he’s a vampire.”

Angel shot his hand forward and gripped the man’s wrist hard enough to make the bones creak. The man winced but didn’t try to pull away.

“Where the fuck is he?” Angel said through a clenched jaw.

“I’ve got something of his,” said the man, ignoring the question. “Want to see?”

“Yes.”

“It’s in my car.” He gestured with his head toward the door.

Angel released the man’s wrist and got to his feet. He threw a ten down on the table and waited. The man rose slowly, rubbing at his sore joint, his lips still happily curled. Angel followed him outside.

It had begun to sprinkle a little outside and the passing cars made _sush-sush_ sounds on the damp pavement. It smelled of wet cement. Angel trailed close behind the man as they turned right, walked a block, then turned again onto a small side street. It was quiet and poorly lit, lined with small businesses that had long since closed for the night. The man continued on for an additional two blocks, and Angel was about to grab him in frustration when the man stopped in front of a dark-colored Mercedes. He turned and smiled at Angel.

“It’s in the back seat,” he said, and opened the door.

The dome light didn’t come on, and Angel bent over and leaned slightly in to see better. At first all he could make out was the seat itself. But then he realized that not all of the black leather he was looking at was upholstery. A coat was folded neatly on the far end of the seat. He inhaled and caught the distinctive smell of Spike’s duster: smoke, blood, whiskey, and Spike himself.

Angel bent a bit more and reached inside for the coat. But there was a muffled _bang_ and a sharp pain in his lower back. Vamping out, he whirled around , but the man slammed the car door hard into his midsection. He saw the man dance backward, still grinning like a maniac, a small pistol held in his right hand.

“That won’t kill me!” Angel roared and lunged forward.

Only to find the ground unaccountably rushing toward his face. He fell with a thud that knocked all the air from his lungs. When he tried to stand up again, his limbs weren’t speaking to him. In fact, it took all he had in him to roll onto his back. A blurry, wavering version of the man was standing over him.

“Wasn’t trying to kill you,” the man said. His voice sounded like he was underwater. “Not yet.”

And then all went black.

 

The thing he noticed first was his head. It hadn’t hurt this badly since a morning shortly before he’d died. He’d had a wee bit to drink the night before and woke up in an alley the next morning with his mouth tasting like a dungheap and an entire regiment of redcoats marching in his skull.

But before he’d managed to pry his eyes open, it was the smell that hit him next, a horrible stench of piss and old blood and death. He remembered the man, then, and he groaned. Was this bastard the human Spike had had doing his daytime work for him?

Cautiously, he opened his eyes. He realized several other things almost at once then. He was naked, sitting on a cold cement floor, propped against a damp wall. His wrists and ankles were in shackles. He was in a large room, nearly empty except for a battered-looking chair and, in one corner, a cell with heavy metal bars.

There was somebody inside the cell.

Angel couldn’t see much of the person. He—it could have been female, but from the narrowness of the hips and width of the shoulders, Angel guessed male—was curled into a tight fetal ball with his back to Angel. He was naked and thin, his vertebrae sharp in the stark overhead light. He was chained, too, and nearly as filthy as the cage he was in. Fading red lines criss-crossed his back and buttocks.

Angel tried to call out to him, and that’s when he became aware that a round metal gag was stuffed in his mouth. It was buckled and locked, and he couldn’t tear it free with his hands. All he could do was make was a loud grunt, which brought no response from the huddled figure.

Angel was still feeling dizzy. He used the wall to support himself as he staggered to his feet. The chains were set into the wall, and he pulled at them but they stayed fast. There wasn’t much else to see from this vantage point. Some blue plastic rope coiled in one corner. A single door of unpainted metal. A few more fetters set into the wall at intervals. He wondered what the point was of having the other prisoner both bound and caged. He rattled his own chains a little, hoping to draw some reaction from the other person, but he didn’t. Maybe the other guy was dead. It didn’t look like he was breathing, but Angel couldn’t be certain.

With no warning at all, the door crashed open. Out of instinct, Angel’s fangs dropped, grinding uncomfortably against the gag, and his brow ridges grew bumpy. He crouched unsteadily, ready to fight whatever came through.

It was the man, of course. He’d changed to a pair of worn jeans and a Stanford t-shirt. He was still grinning, though. “Hi, Angel,” he said, standing well out of Angel’s reach. “Comfortable? I told you I knew where he was.” He gestured toward the cell.

Angel’s stomach clenched and his knees went weak and rubbery.

Oh, no. Oh, Christ, no.

He made another incoherent sound, which the man ignored. He could only watch as the man strolled to the cell and unlocked it with a key he pulled from his pocket and swung the bars open. He kicked lightly at the other prisoner’s back. “Kneel,” he commanded.

Slowly, weakly, the prisoner shuffled to his knees. His head was bowed. Angel still couldn’t see his face, but now he could make out the long, snarled hair, nearly white near the ends and honey-brown at the roots. He had a wide, heavy-looking collar around his neck. “Turn around,” the man said.

The prisoner obeyed. When he was facing Angel, the man yanked hard on his hair, forcing his head upwards. It was Spike’s face that was revealed, gaunt and cadaverous, blue eyes staring forward blankly.

“What are you?” barked the man.

Quietly, expressionlessly, Spike replied, “Your slave, master.”

Angel grunted at him and lunged helplessly, but Spike’s gaze never focused on him.

The man released Spike’s hair. “All fours, slave,” he said.

Spike bent wordlessly until his palms were flat against the floor. His head fell again so that it hung almost to the ground. The man walked around him, cocking his head this way and that, if he was examining a car he was considering buying. When he’d made two complete circles, he used one foot to nudge Spike’s legs farther apart. “I usually don’t do this when he’s this disgusting. But I can make an exception.” The man fumbled at his flies and Angel howled into the gag, sick certainty settling in him of what was about to happen.

Sure enough, the man pulled out his shriveled dick and tugged at it until it was sticking up unimpressively below his beer belly. He dropped to his own knees, slapped Spike’s ass a few times, and then rammed himself inside. Spike groaned quietly and swayed forward just a bit, but didn’t otherwise react.

“Say it, slave.”

“Fuck me, please, master.” There was no emotion at all in his voice.

“Again!”

This time was a little louder. “Please fuck me, master.”

Angel could do nothing but watch as the man grabbed Spike’s jutting hips and pounded into him, grunting softly with each thrust. “Little slut loves this, doesn’t he?” the man panted.

“Yes, master.” Spike moaned then as the man plunged in especially viciously. Even over the general reek of the room, Angel could smell Spike’s fresh blood.

The only mercy was the quickness of the act. Within a few minutes, the man’s movements sped up and became irregular, and he exclaimed, “Ah!” before briefly slumping over Spike’s slightly trembling back.

He used a hand on Spike’s ass to lever himself to a standing position. He tucked his cock back into his jeans and zipped back up. He looked down at his hands and legs with his lip curled. “Yuck! Need a shower after that.” He kicked hard at Spike’s side, and Spike immediately collapsed and curled back into himself. Even from where Angel was, he could see that Spike’s anus was badly torn, a mixture of blood and come dripping slowly down his crack to puddle on the floor beneath him.

The man closed and locked the cell behind himself. He glanced smugly at Angel, who was shaking with impotent rage, and then left the room. The door slammed and, a split second later, the light went out.

In the blackness, there was no noise except the clinking of Angel’s chains. Spike was completely silent; Angel would have had no idea he was there if he hadn’t seen him.

Angel spent an immeasurable time jerking on his chains and trying to communicate with Spike, but neither did any good. Spike remained somewhere in the darkness, unmoving and inscrutable, and the chains didn’t give. When he was exhausted and his skin was bruised and ripped from the fetters, Angel collapsed onto the floor, burying his face in his hands.

 

Angel was even more furious when the man returned. He’d left them alone for what felt like years, and Angel was hungry and sore. He still hadn’t been able to get anything out of Spike, who didn’t so much as twitch when the light went on. But what made him quite literally see red was the fact that the man was pushing a person in front of him.

It was a boy this time, a child not yet in his teens. He was thin and rangy, with hair that hung in his face and a half-healed scrape on one knee. He was tied, just like all the victims had been, and a cloth was jammed in his mouth and knotted behind his head. He’d been crying. His eyes were red and watery, snot was dried under his nose.

Angel roared and pulled at his chains, and the child squeaked and leaned back as if Angel was the monster and the man might save him. But the man ignored Angel and propelled the boy to the cage. He deftly unlocked the bars without letting go of the boy. Lots of practice, Angel thought in despair.

Their captor dragged the boy until he was very close to Spike’s still form and then held him still. “Suppertime,” he sang.

Spike got to his knees. He glanced up, and for a moment Angel thought he saw a flash of intelligence, of recognition, before Spike’s eyes went blank again.

“Beg,” said the man.

“Please, master, feed me.”

“Louder.”

“Master, please feed me!”

The boy began to struggle wildly, but the man was much bigger, and he had no difficulty in throwing the boy to the ground next to Spike. He placed one large foot on the child’s sternum, pinning him in place. “Dig in,” he said.

Spike vamped out. Angel moaned into his gag and reopened the wounds around his cuffs as he heaved with all his strength. But the chains held, and he could do nothing as Spike placed his hands on the boy’s shoulders and then quickly, efficiently, struck at his neck.

The victim screeched horribly and kicked for a moment, but it didn’t take long for a vampire to drain someone, especially when that someone was small. Within brief moments the boy was still. Spike raised his head from his kill. His fangs were dripping in gore and his yellow eyes held nothing human in them.

The man kicked at Spike and the vampire fell away immediately, hunched over himself and trembling. The man put his hands under the corpse’s armpits and dragged it out of the cell, past Angel, and toward the open door.

He didn’t leave yet, though. Instead, he returned to Spike’s side, ordered Spike to change his face back, and then fucked Spike’s mouth until the man pulled out and ejaculated over Spike’s blank and bloody face. Then he relocked the cage.

He came over to where Angel was standing and locked eyes with him. Angel saw nothing human in the odd gray irises either, just cold hatred and swirling madness. “I hope you enjoyed the show,” the man said calmly. “Because there will be repeat performances. It’s a long engagement, you know.” He smiled and tapped at his mouth. “Too bad you don’t get anything to snack on while you watch.”

Angel wasn't sure whether the tears he felt slipping down his cheeks were from frustration, regret, or self-disgust.

The man laughed merrily and left.

[Chapter Six](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/76807.html)

.[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/0005p542/g63)  
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	7. One of Your Kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Several years post-NFA, Angel investigates a series of killings. Is Spike the culprit or a victim?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fic is complete and I'll post daily. It has 10 chapters plus the prologue and an epilogue. Huge thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)and [](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/profile)[**blondebitz**](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/)for the fantastic banners!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[one of your kind](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/one%20of%20your%20kind), [spangel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spangel)  
  
---|---  
  
_**One of Your Kind, 6/10**_  
**Title: **One of Your Kind   
**Chapter:** 6/10   
**Pairing:** Spike/Angel   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Warnings:** non-con, torture, angst, language, m/m   
**Summary:** Several years post-NFA, Angel investigates a series of killings. Is Spike the culprit or a victim?   
**Author's Note:** The fic is complete and I'll post daily. It has 10 chapters plus the prologue and an epilogue. Huge thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)and [](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/profile)[**blondebitz**](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/)for the fantastic banners!

 

[Previous chapters here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=One+of+Your+Kind&filter=all)

 

 

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/0005yz3y/g63)  
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**  
CHAPTER SIX**

 

He could be anywhere. He couldn’t see anything, there was nothing much to hear, and he’d been drowned in the terrible scents for so long he ceased to smell them. So he could be in a nice, soft bed, stomach full, and—

No. That didn’t work. The surface on which he lay was cold and unyielding, and he didn’t have the strength to imagine it was a mattress.

All right then, he was in a crypt. That’s right, he was in _his_ crypt, back in Sunnydale, just having a nice kip atop the tomb. Soon one of the Scoobies would come bursting in and they’d banter and call each other names for a time, and then he’d just nip on out with them and kill something. Perhaps after he’d stop at Willy’s, have a drink or three. Maybe even rustle up someone lively to share his sepulcher.

Lovely.

But for now he could rest, dream sweet dreams, and he would not think about the children. No, he would not.

That small shuffling noise—that was just a mouse in the corner. One of the downsides to taking up residence in a mausoleum. Well, a little mouse wouldn’t hurt him. He’d just let it go on about its business, snuffling and scratching with its tiny feet.

But what if it wasn’t a mouse?

What if it was…something larger? Something dangerous.

Oh, he could play this game, yes he could. He’d just lie here very still, oh so still, still as a dead man, and it wouldn’t know he was here. It would go away and leave him be, alone and safe in his dark little cocoon. Nothing bad ever happened to him in the dark.

 

It didn’t work. Because master came again, with another crying, shaking meal, and that wasn’t the horrible bit. No, the horrible bit was when master turned on the light and his safety vanished.

Usually, when the bad things happened he went away. His body obeyed the commands—eating and begging and being fucked—but he was only dimly aware of it, like a staticky film watched from far away.

But now when the light came on there were the eyes. Not the food’s eyes. He didn’t look at them.

These eyes were deep and brown and sorrowful, and they pinned him in place as if he were a captured butterfly and he couldn’t go away then. He had to remain as the bad things happened, as they happened to him, as he made them happen to others.

Why wouldn’t the eyes let him go?

 

The eyes had been there for a time, the face around them growing gaunt and drawn, when the answer occurred to him. It was the spark, wasn’t it? The bloody spark, always burning in him like cold embers. If he could get rid of the spark, the eyes would go away as well.

So he tried.

Just willing it to leave didn’t work.

Maybe pain would work, he thought. So he deliberately refused master’s next orders and he laughed when the collar shocked him again and again, all the way into unconsciousness, because he knew when he awoke the spark would be gone.

Only it wasn’t, and the eyes were even more intense.

Perhaps he could dig it out. He waited until master was gone and then he clawed at his chest and belly, howling with pain and glee. But again he blacked out, and then master was back, frowning down at him and yelling something. He couldn’t make out the words. They didn’t matter anyway.

Master left and when he came back minutes or hours or years later he was holding a pair of polished steel globes that were attached by a short chain. Spike didn’t bother to resist—you couldn’t resist master, he was more powerful than a mere slave—as master enclosed his hands in the globes and then padlocked them shut. And then he punished the slave for damaging his property, countless lashes on the slave’s back and arse, but the slave barely felt them over the pain from the spark.

Master eventually left and turned out the light, and that was nice. Safe again.

But now there was a new sound, and it wasn’t a mouse. It was sobbing. Someone crying like his heart had broken, but muffled, because he was gagged.

And when Spike heard that, the brittle shell he’d built around himself to protect him from the horrors of his captivity cracked and fell away in a million jagged shards.

“Angel?” he whispered.

The crying stopped and was replaced by a soft grunt.

“Angel…I’m…I’m sorry,” he said. And then he couldn’t say anything else for a long time.

 

When Spike was capable again of speech, he once again whispered Angel’s name. “Angel? Can you hear me?”

The reply was the soft clang of metal on metal.

“One…one for yes and two for no, yeah?”

Clang.

Spike had a great many questions he wanted to ask. But none of them could be answered so simply. So instead of asking, he decided to tell.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Liam. It’s my fault you’re here, and...and god, what I’ve done, all my fault.”

There was a slight pause, then clang clang.

“I don’t…I don’t want any of this, you know that?”

Clang.

“Even though I beg, and I’ve killed…oh, I’ve killed all the boys and girls he brings me. I don’t _want_ this, you understand?”

Clang.

Spike took a deep breath and let it out. “I wish you’d never seen me like this.”

Silence, and then clang.

The velvety blackness was comforting. It led Spike to say things he never could have if he and Angel could see one another. “I’m going to tell you some things. I reckon I should have said them long ago, but it’s too late for regrets. And now you have to listen. Can’t call me moron or try to bash my mouth closed.” Spike gave a small, bitter laugh. Angel was silent.

“I want you to know you’re a great broody git. And you’ve done things to me I’m not sure I could ever forgive. I mean _you_, not that twat Angelus, though you’ve a good deal more of him in you than you’ll ever admit. But you, Angel, the vampire with a soul, you’ve hurt me. I don’t mean with your fists, though you’ve done plenty of that.

“People have said things to me before....Cecily, back when I was human. Buffy—she could wound me with her words worse than she ever could with a stake. Even Dru, the way she’d look at you, no matter how I loved her, or talk about you all those years when you were gone. I expect she loved me in her own way, but I knew I’d never measure up to you in her cold heart.

“But you. How you’d look at me. Even after I’d won my bloody soul, even after I’d burned to save the world, even when I’d fought at your side again and again. You’d look at me like I was a bloody insect, something you scraped off the bottom of your shoe. And I tried not to let on, but that…that hurt worse than anything the girls ever did to me.

“Do you know why I stayed with you all that time despite that? Do you?” His voice was rough from disuse, but now it rose to nearly a shout.

Clang clang.

“I thought, that one time…and you said I wasn’t…but that was just a moment, wasn’t it? Nothing real.”

Clang clang.

Spike scoffed. Easy for Angel to lie now, without words, when Spike couldn’t see the truth in his face. “It was real for me,” he said so softly he wondered whether Angel could hear. “It’s always been real for me. I’ve always—oh, hell, what does it matter?”

He bit his cheek to keep from dissolving into tears.

Clang.

Equivocal sound, that.

Spike remained silent, and Angel banged his chains several more times, increasingly louder and faster, until he stopped altogether.

 

****

 

 

His beautiful boy.

That’s what Spike had always been, even though Angel had never admitted it to himself. Always a strutting little rooster, profane and uncouth, but beneath that an endearing vulnerability, a sharp mind, a heart as brilliant as any Angel had ever encountered even though it hadn’t beat in over a century. And lovely, with those exquisite cheekbones and tempting lips, those eyes like a summer sky and smooth, fine skin over hard muscles.

Always, somehow, his.

Back when Angelus had Spike, he’d beat him until he was nothing but a mass of bruises. Whip him until hardly any skin remained on the fledge’s back. Fuck him hard and dry. And he’d visit tortures of a more psychological type as well, fucking Dru in front of him, letting Spike see that in Dru’s eyes, Spike would never, ever measure up to her Daddy.

Spike would always bounce back, though, stronger and brasher than ever. No matter what was done to him, he’d never broken.

Not until now.

Angel supposed maybe the soul had something to do with it, although, truthfully, Spike had always had more humanity in him than any vampire Angel had met. Maybe it came of being turned by a mad seer, or maybe it was something intrinsic to the man himself.

In any case, now his boy was shattered, huddled silently in on himself except for the brief times when their captor came and made Spike perform like a trained animal. After those moments when he’d ranted at Angel, he’d refused to answer Angel’s chain-rattling or desperate moans.

Angel would have traded his battered soul for the chance to hold Spike in his arms for five minutes, to comfort him, to tell him he loved him. But now he was growing increasingly weak, his body so desiccated he couldn’t even cry any longer.

He didn’t move when the light went on. He didn’t look up to see what unfortunate creature the man had dragged down here this time, and he didn’t watch as Spike fed, then cleansed himself with a rag, then bent over for the man’s cock. He ignored the way the scent of blood made his long-empty stomach clench in pain and his fangs itch and burn inside his gums. And when the man dragged the corpse away he didn’t watch that either.

He was slowly slipping into an uneasy torpor when a small sound intruded into his consciousness. It was a tiny clicking noise, like plastic hitting something hard. For the first time in a while, he concentrated.

“Liam?” Spike’s voice was faint in the darkness.

Angel jangled a chain.

“I’ve found…I think I’ve found something.”

Angel’s wasted muscles protested as he sat up.

“I think…I think it’s a pen. Fell from her pocket, I expect. Master didn’t see it in all…in all the filth on the floor.”

Angel made another sound with the chains, to let Spike know he was listening.

“I can’t…can’t do anything with it, not with these bloody things…my hands….” Spike made a choked sound that may have been a sob. “But you…I’ve seen you pick a lock with less. You could get free, yeah?”

Clang.

In Angel’s experience, shackles were generally not very complicated to open at all, with a basic tool or two. Over the years, he’d used hairpins and needles and the tine of fork. A pen might work, too.

For the first time in a long while, he felt hope.

“I need to kick it over to you, yeah? Have to use my feet. Can you make more noise so I can find you?”

Angel wrapped one of the chains in his fist and started shaking it. He heard Spike rustling, then a small, metallic _clink_.

“Bollocks! Bounced off the bars. Don’t know if I can reach….”

Angel held his breath as Spike’s own chains rattled, and as Spike grunted with effort.

“Got it!” Spike said. The note of triumph in his voice was sweet to Angel’s ears. “Gonna try again. Where are you?”

Angel shook some more, and again heard Spike moving. The pen rolled swiftly toward him, then stopped. Fuck. What if it was too far away?

“Did you get it?”

Clang clang. But then Angel fell onto his belly and stretched out his arms, and slowly, carefully swept the entire area within his reach. His fingertip just barely brushed against something and he froze, not wanting to risk knocking it farther away. Reminding himself to be patient and painstaking, he stretched out just a little more. He felt his damaged skin tearing more against the metal, but he ignored it. Just…an inch…more.

The pen rolled gently into his grip. He held it tightly, not trusting himself to move yet, thanking whatever gods would listen.

“Angel?” Spike asked in a small voice.

Angel brought the pen back with him as he scooted back into a seated position. He shook his chains vigorously and grunted into the gag.

“Did you get it?”

Clang!

From across the room, he heard Spike let out his breath in one long stream.

“Hurry, then! Get yourself loose before master comes back!”

It wasn’t quite so easy as that. Picking locks in the pitch dark, when those locks are attached to you and your hands are shaking with excitement and anxiety, is not a simple task. But Angel fumbled and fidgeted, and eventually his wrists were free, and then his ankles. He tried to get rid of the gag, too, but the lock was more complicated, and it was too hard to reach it behind his head.

He stood, and the shackles fell off him with a resounding clatter.

“Angel? Liam? Are you…did it work?”

Angel’s knees felt rubbery as he padded across the room, holding his hands blindly in front of him, the pen still in one fist. It didn’t take many steps before he felt the bars of the cell in front of him. He shook and hit at them, letting them Spike know he was there.

“Angel? Oh, bloody hell! You’re loose?”

Angel grunted an affirmative.

“Christ! Get out of here, quickly!”

Angel felt his way to the cell’s lock. But that’s where his sudden exuberance deserted him, because this lock was more complicated, and the pen wouldn’t budge it at all. Frustrated, he slammed his fist into the bars. Then he tried to reach through, to see if he could get to Spike, but he knew that his boy was too far away. He could always roll the pen back to Spike, of course, but that wouldn’t do him any good, not with those fucking things on his hands.

Angel roared and snarled into his gag.

He thought frantically about how else to free Spike, but he knew there was nothing else in the room but the chair and the rope, and neither of those would do him any good. Even the light was in the center of the ceiling, too high to reach even with the chair or with the best jump he could manage in his weakened condition.

“Liam.” Spike’s voice was firm and calm. “Go. Go now.”

Angel banged heavily on the cage door. No, he wouldn’t abandon his boy, not again.

“Can’t get me loose. I’m lost anyhow. Go, please, please go. Don’t let master find you. You can’t fight him now.”

Angel winced to hear Spike refer to the man as master. Seething with rage, he bashed his head against the bars once, twice, three times.

“Go,” Spike whispered.

And Angel spun on his heels and lurched in the darkness to the door. It was unlocked.

Angel left his beautiful boy.

Outside the room was nothing but a long, bare hallway that sloped slightly upwards. Several fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Before he reached the end, Angel had to stop twice to lean against the wall and gather enough strength to go on. There was another door at the end, and for a sickening moment Angel thought it was locked. But it turned out the knob was only a little stiff, and he was able to open it with just a little pressure.

He found himself in a wooded area. It wasn’t quite dark out, but the sun was low in the sky and the trees offered enough cover for him to avoid incineration. He stood uncertainly outside the door. He wanted to wait for the man to return so that Angel could tear his head off and, he hoped, find the key to the cell. But it could be days or more before the bastard returned, and as weak as he was, and with the gag blocking his fangs, Angel wasn’t in good enough shape to take him even now. Regret and desperation weighing heavily on his dead heart, Angel decided to leave, to find a way to remove the gag and get some blood. He vowed to return as soon as he possibly could. He could only hope the man wouldn’t return to harm Spike in the meantime.

 

[Chapter Seven](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/77112.html)

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/0005khkx/g63)  
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	8. One of Your Kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Several years post-NFA, Angel investigates a series of killings. Is Spike the culprit or a victim?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fic is complete and I'll post daily. It has 10 chapters plus the prologue and an epilogue. Huge thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)and [](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/profile)[**blondebitz**](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/)for the fantastic banners!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[one of your kind](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/one%20of%20your%20kind), [spangel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spangel)  
  
---|---  
  
_**One of Your Kind, 7/10**_  
**Title: **One of Your Kind   
**Chapter:** 7/10   
**Pairing:** Spike/Angel   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Warnings:** non-con, torture, angst, language, m/m   
**Summary:** Several years post-NFA, Angel investigates a series of killings. Is Spike the culprit or a victim?   
**Author's Note:** The fic is complete and I'll post daily. It has 10 chapters plus the prologue and an epilogue. Huge thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)and [](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/profile)[**blondebitz**](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/)for the fantastic banners!

**Posting early because I have in-laws visiting, and don't know if I'll have time to post vampire porn in the morning. *g* And...another wonderful banner today, this time by **[](http://zoesmith.livejournal.com/profile)[**zoesmith**](http://zoesmith.livejournal.com/)**!**

 

[Previous chapters here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=One+of+Your+Kind&filter=all)

 

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000602es/g63)  
---  
  
**CHAPTER SEVEN**

 

Even though Spike had spent a good deal more time alone in this room than in the company of his grandsire, the room now felt much emptier than before. Not that he and Angel had enjoyed much in the way of sparkling conversation, and being so close to the big vampire without being able to touch him had been maddening. But still, even when Spike was hidden deep within himself, he’d known Angel was there, and it had been oddly comforting.

Not that he wasn’t relieved Angel had got free. In fact, thinking of Angel’s escape awoke a feeling so unfamiliar it took him some time to recognize it as happiness. He wished he knew whether Angel had really been able to get away completely. He tried not to picture him encountering master in his current debilitated state, or crumbling to dust as he encountered some unforeseen hazard, or crouching somewhere, trapped by sunlight, waiting helplessly for master to return.

No, Angel’s flight was successful.

Spike stirred slightly on the floor and his chains clinked dully. He wondered whether Angel would think of him now and then. Perhaps. Perhaps he’d even dredge up a good memory sometimes, like when Spike was the first to support Angel’s plan to battle Wolfram &amp; Hart. For a moment, Spike even imagined Angel rushing back, well-fed and full of righteous anger, to kill master and release Spike. But he quickly quashed that mental picture. Angel never would have rescued him to begin with, and he certainly wasn’t going to do so now, when Spike had been the cause of his incarceration, and when he’d seen Spike murder children and then beg for master’s cock. Not when Spike was broken and defiled.

Spike slowly rose to a sitting position, even though his arse was sore, and leaned back against the wall. He rubbed his head back and forth, hoping that would help with the eternal maddening itch of his knotted hair, but it didn’t. Between the hair and the filth on his body, and the marks that master left and that were never quite permitted to mend, he must look quite a sight, he thought. Like something from a horror movie. He cackled into the darkness.

 

Even asleep, he knew it was only a dream. That was all right, though. He’d take whatever respite he could get.

He was in a house, a grand manor furnished in the height of Victorian luxury, and as cold and drafty as reality. He wandered from room to room, searching for something, but he couldn’t remember what. He came to a large chamber filled with trophies—the heads of every beast imaginable, and elephant tusks many yards long, and bones and hides and an entire stuffed dragon. A fire roared in a hearth along one wall, and a woman stood in front of it, clad in an emerald green gown, her hair swept up and her back to him. She turned to look at him, though, and it was Buffy.

She looked him up and down slowly, her mouth set in a moue of distaste. “What are _you_ doing here?” she asked. He realized then that he was naked and his dead body tried to flush in shame.

When he didn’t answer, she turned away dismissively. “Please,” he croaked. “Please help. I can’t find it. Won’t you help me?”

She spun around again. “There’s nothing here for you, Spike,” she spat, and then she was suddenly brandishing a stake. She lunged toward him and he turned and ran, out the door, down a long, long corridor, until he found himself inside another room.

This one was a nursery, with two small beds covered in ruffled linens, and toys and children’s books scattered everywhere. There was a small table in the middle, and Drusilla sat there, pouring red liquid from a teapot into tiny china cups, and then placing the cups in front of the dolls that sat with her. “Hello, kitten,” she said, smiling up at him. “Come to join the party?”

“I can’t. I’m looking for something. Will you help me?”

She pouted. “That’s not any fun, kitten. Stay with me and I will be your princess, and we can dance with the flowers.”

“No, Dru, I can’t. Don’t you see, I’m—“

She hissed at him and let go of the teapot, which crashed onto the floor and fragmented into a thousand pieces. “You’re being naughty, my Willy, my sweet William. Mummy will have to punish you.” She stalked slowly toward him, her fangs extended and her clawed fingers raised.

He couldn’t move. She came closer, and then circled around him. She sniffed at his neck, trailed a single sharp nail down his sternum. “You’re the one who’s lost, pretty William,” she said in a sing-song voice. “Poor, lost boy. What shall we do with him?” As she spoke the last word, children appeared, emerging from cupboards and toy-boxes, crawling out from under the duvets. Each one’s neck was slashed in a cruel parody of a smile, and he recognized them as the young ones he’d fed on, both recently and before the soul. They came at him, arms outstretched as if for a hug.

Abruptly, Spike was able to move again, and he did, dashing out of the room and slamming the door behind him.

He was in another hallway, lined with statues and suits of armor and paintings of affronted-looking nobility. And there were people there as well, people he once knew. Wes and Charlie and Fred and Harris and the witches and Rupert and Harris’s demon bint and others, all just standing and staring at him, watching him as he sprinted by.

There were dozens of doors and he tried every one of them, but every one of them was locked. He stopped in front of a familiar green face. “Lorne,” he begged. “Please. Tell me where it is. I’ll sing for you if you like.”

Lorne shook his head sadly. “Can’t help you, cupcake. I don’t think you’ll ever find it.”

Next to Lorne, the Gypsy woman from long-ago London shook her head. “Joy and sorrow, Master Pratt, joy and sorrow.”

Something big crashed behind him, like giant’s footsteps, and Spike couldn’t bring himself to turn and see what it was. He broke into a run again, as fast as he could, but it didn’t seem he was getting anywhere at all. “Like Alice,” he thought, and then there was a huge pair of doors in front of him. They were of dark wood and intricately carved in patterns he couldn’t quite make out. Another loud thump very close, and he tried to pull the doors open. They were immensely heavy. It took every bit of his strength, but then he finally managed to release them just enough to slip through. He quickly bolted them behind himself.

He was in the room, the room where master had been keeping him so long. He wasn’t in the cell, though, but in the middle of the room. In fact, the cell was gone, and in its place was an enormous bed, a gothic monstrosity with ornate posts and a heavy canopy.

Angel and master were on the bed.

They were struggling with one another, and, in the way understanding often comes to one in dreams, Spike knew they were fighting over the thing, the elusive whatever that he had sought. They twisted and writhed on the sheets, both emitting a stream of foul curses. Angel reared up and slammed back down, and master cried out.

“Yeah!” Spike called. “Kill the wanker, Angel!”

Both the men on the bed froze, and Angel turned and looked at him. And that was when Spike became aware that they hadn’t been fighting at all, they’d been fucking, hard and fierce. Angel snarled at him. “Get the fuck out of here, William! Nobody here wants you!”

Under Angel, master laughed and laughed.

 

 

“Fuck!!”

Spike huddled more tightly into himself. He curled in a ball as soon as the light went on, as if that would protect him from master’s wrath. As if anything would.

Master stomped over to the cell and, from the sound of it, threw his latest captive onto the floor. Then he slammed his hands into the bars. “Where the fuck is he?!”

Despite his terror, Spike’s dead heart leapt with joy. He hadn’t caught Angel. Angel was free.

Agony shot through Spike’s body as master activated the collar. When the pain had receded a bit and Spike was left, supine and panting, master roared again, “Where IS he?”

“I don’t know, master,” Spike breathed, and that was the truth.

“How long has he been gone?”

“I don’t know, master,” repeated Spike. That was honest as well. He’d long since lost any sense of time in this place.

Master bellowed with rage. “How the fuck did he get away?”

Spike didn’t see any reason to lie. “A pen, master. The girl dropped a pen.”

Master made an inchoate sound of fury and kicked at the bound person, who grunted in pain. Spike still hadn’t raised his head, hadn’t even opened his eyes, actually, but he heard master pacing angrily across the room, muttering to himself. Finally, he stopped, having apparently managed to calm himself a bit.

The cell door unlocked, and a moment later, the meal was heaved on top of Spike’s cowering body. Spike heard the familiar sound of master’s knife snapping open. “Eat now, motherfucker!” master snapped.

Spike uncurled a bit and looked at the victim. It was a woman. She was probably young but she had the look of a hard life about her. She was lean, with stringy hair and hollow cheeks. He’d wager that underneath that gag, her teeth were rotted. He hoped she hadn’t used recently—meth always seemed to make all his pains and discomforts even worse. Her bloodshot eyes were wide with fear.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, and clumsily tried to brush a strand of hair out of her face.

“Hurry!” master yelled.

Spike vamped out and bit into the woman’s jugular. Her skin felt like paper beneath his fangs, her pulse buzzing like a mild electrical shock. She convulsed on the floor, still trying to get away, until he’d swallowed and swallowed, and then her efforts grew weaker. He felt it the moment she gave up. All her muscles went suddenly slack and she moaned quietly. Her heart slowed. He knew from experience that a dying person could find a bit of peace, right at the end. He envied her.

When her body was motionless and cooling on the floor, Spike looked up warily at master. “Stand up!” master commanded.

Spike did, slowly, because it had been a long time. He was dizzy and had to put a metal-covered hand against the wall for support.

Master unhooked the chain that connected the globes over Spike’s hands. “Hands behind your back!” master ordered. He had a length of rope in his hands. Must have fetched it while Spike was eating, Spike reckoned. Still wobbly, Spike turned and rested his forehead on the damp wall and crossed his wrists behind him. Master immediately began binding him, pulling the rope so painfully tight from Spike’s hands to his biceps, that Spike was afraid his shoulders would be dislocated.

When master was satisfied that the rope would hold, he attached another short length to the collar, and then unlocked the chains that attached Spike to the wall. He yanked hard on his makeshift leash and Spike stumbled and nearly fell before he was able to follow master out of the cell and across the room.

It was so strange to be seeing the world from a different perspective than the one he’d been forced into for so long that Spike’s dizziness increased. He closed his eyes tightly, hoping that would help, and master hauled him out of the room completely and then out the door.

Spike kept his eye squeezed shut as master dragged him up a smooth, gentle slope that seemed to go on for miles. But then his lids flew open in surprise when, for the first time in…however long it had been…he felt something besides concrete under his feet, and his nose filled with the clean, fresh scent of the outdoors. They were in a woods. Pine trees towered overhead and their fallen needles blanketed the ground. The sky was darkening, with stars just beginning to shine, and he could see just a glimpse of a bright light through the massive trunks. It was towards that light that master hurried, swearing furiously under his breath the whole way.

They soon emerged from the trees, and master continued to tow Spike across a scraggly lawn and toward a huge stucco house. The only other visible building was a large structure that might have been a garage. Trees flanked the cleared area on three sides, and on the fourth was a long drive that led to a gate in a tall security wall. They were nearly to the house when Spike tripped on a hole in the ground and fell flat onto his face. Master kicked at him until, with considerable difficulty, he was able to scramble back to his feet. A trickle from his bloodied nose itched annoyingly down his lip and chin. He couldn’t wipe at it, of course, and, for no good reason at all, that made him suddenly enraged.

Spike stopped and dug in his heels. Thanks to his recent feed, he was strong enough to resist the insistent pull at his neck. Master spun around. His face was brick red and spittle flew from his lips as he yelled. “Move your stupid goddamn ass!”

“Fuck you,” Spike said quietly.

Master’s eyes grew wide and his mouth dropped open in a look of comical astonishment.

“Fuck _you!_” Spike repeated, and he took advantage of master’s shock to move his body sharply sideways, wrenching the rope from master’s slackened hands. And then he ran.

He didn’t expect to get away. He was still dizzy and disoriented, feeble from months of abuse and inactivity, and he didn’t even know which way to go to escape. He certainly couldn’t scale the wall with his arms bound as they were, and he suspected the wall encircled the entire property. Also, he knew master was armed with the knife, and the controller for the collar, and, for all he knew, other weapons as well. Still, he ran, because at least he was making a sodding effort then, and not just meekly bowing to the bastard’s will, as he had for all this time.

His captor thundered after him, heavy footsteps crashing close behind, the man’s breaths already coming in rapid wheezes. Spike had nearly made it back to the trees when the man remembered the collar, and then Spike’s legs gave out as he shrieked and his body jerked uncontrollably on the grass.

The man caught up with him, gasping and puffing. Spike tried to regain control of his body as the man stood over him, but it would have been hard enough in any case to stand with his arms tied behind him, and now his legs weren’t cooperating at all.

“Stupid son of a bitch!” the man screamed. “I’m gonna bathe your eyeballs in holy water and peel your skin off inch by inch!”

“You go ahead and try, you fat bloody wanker!”

The man screeched in fury. In fact, he was so angry that he fumbled a bit with the controller, and that gave Spike just enough time vamp out as he twisted his ankles around the man’s and sent the man crashing down on top of him. It hurt. The pillock was heavy. Spike pinned him in place with his legs and then wriggled, trying to get a likely bit of flesh within reach of his fangs. But then the man managed to activate the collar, and Spike fought desperately to maintain both his grip on his opponent and his consciousness.

It was a good effort, but, ultimately, a fruitless one. The man wrestled his way free and pushed the button again, and blackness washed over Spike.

It must have been only minutes later when he came to. His ankles were trussed tightly together with the remains of the man’s shirt. The man was bare-chested and had tucked Spike’s feet under one arm. He was dragging Spike along the ground, and it bloody hurt as his head bumped and bent, and as his roped arms caught underneath his torso. Spike tried to kick his way loose, but the repeated shocks had sapped his strength, and the man only clutched him tighter.

Idly, Spike wondered if he’d ever see the sky again, and he looked longingly up at the thin crescent of the moon.

So no one was more astonished than he when something flew out of nowhere and tackled the man to the ground.

Spike wriggled around as best as he could, trying to get a look at what was happening. There was the man, flat on his back and bellowing like a wounded bull. And atop him was a figure in black. The two of them rolled and heaved, and then the man in black was on top again and he turned his head just enough so that Spike could see his face and, oh god, it was Angel, fucking _Angel_, game-faced and terrifying.

Spike watched helplessly as Angel bent down and buried his fangs in the howling man’s neck. The man kicked and writhed but couldn’t get loose. As his movements slowed, though, Angel suddenly lifted his head. He glanced over at Spike, who watched the blood drip from his grandsire’s teeth. With a smile that was pure Angelus, the big vampire tore into his own wrist. He thrust the wrist against the man’s still open mouth, silencing him, and then bit his neck again.

It was only a minute or two longer until the man was unmoving. Dead.

Angel crouched for a moment to catch his breath. Then he moved to Spike’s side and put out a hand to push a matted lock of hair out of his face. “Are you hurt?” he asked.

“N-no.”

“Can you walk?”

“I…I think so.”

Angel tore impatiently at the cloth around Spike’s ankles, ripping the hasty knots free. Then he gingerly helped Spike roll onto his side, and he tugged and pulled at the rope, growling when he couldn’t undo it. “Knife in ma—in his pocket,” Spike said. Angel fetched the knife and soon had Spike’s arms free. Spike groaned as his shoulders moved back to their proper positions.

“I can’t get those fucking things off your hands, not right now. You gonna be okay with them?”

“Yeah.”

Angel lifted Spike to his feet and steadied him when he swayed a bit. “We need to go. He’s got employees in the house, I think. Someone might have heard all the noise he was making.”

Everything felt unreal to Spike, like a dream, and he could only gawp at Angel in return.

Angel sighed. “Okay. Let’s get the fuck out of here.” He heaved the corpse over his shoulder and made his way around the back of the house, to another thick stand of trees. Spike trailed behind him, but Angel kept glancing over his shoulder to make sure Spike was near.

Spike had been right—the wall continued on this side. Angel heaved the body over the top of it. It made a sickening thump on the other side. Then Angel looked thoughtfully at Spike. “I’m gonna have to help you, okay?”

Spike nodded.

He watched as Angel leapt to the top of the wall and balanced there for a moment. Then Angel lay down on his belly and reached down. “Come here. I’ll give you a lift.” It was awkward because Spike’s hands were inaccessible, but Angel was able to grasp his forearms and raise him up until Spike could scramble his leg over the edge. It was uncomfortable to straddle the wall nude, but he reckoned he was fortunate they didn’t have razor wire or something up there.

Angel dropped down on the other side of the wall, and Spike was able to do so, too, although Angel had to catch his waist to keep him from falling when he landed. A narrow road ran parallel to the wall, and Angel’s Viper was parked a few yards away. Spike’s knees still felt wobbly as he made his way to the car, and when Angel opened the door for him, he collapsed ungracefully into the passenger seat.

There was a fair amount of grunting and swearing then, and the car shook and heaved as Angel apparently tried to jam the corpse into the tiny boot. Finally Angel climbed into the driver’s seat. Before he drove away, though, he squirmed out of his coat and draped it over Spike’s lap. Spike leaned his skull back against the headrest, exhausted and overwhelmed, and Angel gave him an intense and unfathomable look. “Come on,” Angel said. “Let’s go home.”

 

[Chapter Eight](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/77511.html)

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/0005yz3y/g63)  
---  
  
 


	9. One of Your Kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Several years post-NFA, Angel investigates a series of killings. Is Spike the culprit or a victim?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fic is complete and I'll post daily. It has 10 chapters plus the prologue and an epilogue. Huge thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)and [](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/profile)[**blondebitz**](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/)and [](http://zoesmith.livejournal.com/profile)[**zoesmith**](http://zoesmith.livejournal.com/)for the fantastic banners!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:**|   
[one of your kind](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/one%20of%20your%20kind), [spangel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spangel)  
  
---|---  
  
_**One of Your Kind, 8/10**_  
**Title: **One of Your Kind   
**Chapter:** 8/10   
**Pairing:** Spike/Angel   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Warnings:** non-con, torture, angst, language, m/m   
**Summary:** Several years post-NFA, Angel investigates a series of killings. Is Spike the culprit or a victim?   
**Author's Note:** The fic is complete and I'll post daily. It has 10 chapters plus the prologue and an epilogue. Huge thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)and [](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/profile)[**blondebitz**](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/)and [](http://zoesmith.livejournal.com/profile)[**zoesmith**](http://zoesmith.livejournal.com/)for the fantastic banners!

**Still with the in-laws visiting, so here we go early again. :-)**

 

[Previous chapters here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=One+of+Your+Kind&filter=all)

 

 

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/0005yz3y/g63)  
---  
  
**  
CHAPTER EIGHT**

 

Spike looked more like a zombie than a vampire as Angel led him into the Hyperion. His eyes were glazed and his movements clumsy. Angel had draped his coat over Spike’s shoulders, and then he gently cupped one elbow in his palm and took Spike up the stairs. Spike came along docilely, like a sleepwalker.

Angel had actually put a lot of thought into where to put Spike if Spike wasn’t dust when he got there, and if Angel was successful in extracting him from that son of a bitch’s grip. He’d finally decided on his old suite, because it had a huge tub, and Spike really, really needed a bath. And because there was some room to move around, and the little kitchen, where they could easily warm some blood or even fix some human food if Spike was in the mood for it. When Angel was still pinned inside the hotel by daylight, he’d vented some of his restless energy cleaning the suite and putting in fresh linens and towels and stocking the fridge.

As he’d filled the refrigerator shelves with plastic containers of blood, he’d wondered for a moment whether Spike would be willing to go back to cow and pig after over a year of feeding on human straight from the vein. Then he’d shook his head impatiently at himself. It wasn’t Spike’s fault he’d been forced to kill again, and it wouldn’t do either of them any good to talk about it right now.

It was strange, how silent Spike was. He didn’t say a word on the drive home, although it took nearly an hour, and even now, standing in the middle of the suite, he simply let his head hang as he stared at the carpet.

“Would you like a bath?” Angel asked.

Spike blinked at him and then nodded dumbly, so Angel went into the bathroom and turned on the tap. When he came back, Spike was standing exactly as he’d left him.

“Let me get those things off you, okay?”

Angel had to lift Spike’s hands himself, but it didn’t take much pressure from his bolt cutter to destroy the locks. Spike winced when his hands were finally freed of the globes; they’d been held clenched for a long time. Angel tackled the collar next, a little cautiously because he didn’t want to accidentally activate it. But it came off fairly easily, and he tossed it into a trashcan. When Spike still only stood there, Angel gently removed the coat from him, and, with a hand on Spike’s shoulders, guided him into the bathroom, and then helped him into the tub. He thought maybe Spike relaxed just a little as the hot water closed over his body.

Angel knelt beside the tub. “Hey,” he said softly. “I have a cadaver to take care of. I’ll be back in a few minutes, okay? Then I can help with your hair, if you want.”

He didn’t think Spike was going to answer, but after a long pause Spike finally nodded. “All right,” he said in a near-whisper.

Angel trotted down the stairs and back outside. It wasn’t much easier getting the dead bastard out of the trunk than it had been shoving him in. Vipers weren’t meant to carry cargo like that. The asshole weighed a ton, too, and Angel lugged him down to the basement and threw him in the cell down there. He took a moment to strip him to his boxers, and then he locked the cell tightly. See how he liked waking up caged and hungry beneath the ground.

Angel took a moment to look through the man’s pockets. His name was Stephen Hollings and he was 45 years old. He was a real estate developer, apparently. He had nearly $500 in his wallet, an assortment of credit cards, and a picture of a pretty woman. He’d also been carrying a cell phone, which Angel gleefully crunched to bits under his foot. He had some details to take care of, but they could wait. Right now he had his boy to attend to.

Spike was unmoving in the tub, his eyes closed and his head tilted all the way back. The water was tepid and filthy. “Want me to refill the tub?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Spike answered without opening his lids.

Angel ducked out for a moment while the water was running, and then returned in time to turn off the faucet and hold a mug out to Spike. “Are you hungry?”

“Yeah. Ta.” Spike struggled to a sitting position and took the mug. He grimaced slightly as he took his first sip, but he drained the cup anyway. Angel set it beside the sink, and, while he was over there, grabbed a pair of scissors from the cabinet behind the useless mirror.

“I can do something with your hair, if you want.”

Spike sighed. “Just…just cut it all off, yeah?”

Angel did, snipping until all that was left was the barest stubble. Spike looked so delicate and fragile like that that Angel had to swallow and look away for a moment. By then another change of bathwater was needed, but at least Spike was looking noticeably cleaner.

Angel eyed the thick cake of white soap and licked his lips nervously. “Do you want…do you want me to help, uh, scrub?” he asked.

Spike flinched and hunched in on himself a little. “No. I can…I can do it.”

Of course he doesn’t want anyone touching him, Angel chided himself. Out loud, he said, “Okay. There are towels here, and, uh, some clothes in the bedroom. They’re mine. We can get some for you tomorrow.”

“All right,” Spike said, like the prospect of being clothed didn’t particularly interest him.

“There’s plenty of blood in the fridge. Is there anything else I can get you?”

Spike shook his head. “No. I…I expect I’ll just have a bit of a kip.”

“Okay.” Angel stood and felt huge and awkward in the small space. “Just call if you need anything. I’ll be right across the hall.”

Spike nodded and turned his head away.

Angel wanted badly to gather Spike in his arms, bathwater and all, and hold him close, and stroke his back, and tell him everything would be all right. Instead, he went to make some phone calls.

 

Angel didn’t see Spike for the rest of that evening, or the next day, or the night after that. Finally, late in the afternoon, nearly two days after they’d returned, he knocked on the door to room 312. A soft voice inside said, “Come in.”

Spike was sitting in the armchair. Angel’s too-big clothes made him look like a child, and for just a moment Angel was reminded uncomfortably of Connor. A mug sat on the small table next to Spike, but, as far as Angel could tell, the younger vampire had been simply sitting there, staring at nothing. He glanced up at Angel and then looked down at his own lap.

“How are you doing?” Angel asked uncomfortably.

“’M fine.”

“You need anything?”

“No.”

Angel pulled one of the plain wooden chairs over from the kitchen area and sat down opposite Spike. Spike didn’t look at him, and they both sat silently for a long time.

Finally, Spike whispered, “How long?”

“How long what?”

“How long can I stay?”

Angel’s stomach knotted. “As long as you want. I…I want you to stay.”

Spike looked up at him quickly then, his eyes wide with surprise. “You want….”

“Stay. Please stay.”

“Why?” Spike winced, as if he expected the answer was going to be one he didn’t want to hear.

Angel didn’t know how to answer. If he tried to tell Spike how he really felt, Spike would probably only get angry. So all he said was, “I want you to, okay?”

Spike frowned, but nodded.

Angel stood. “Look, I have some cops coming in a little bit.”

“Cops?” There was an edge of panic to Spike’s voice.

“Yeah. Hollings is gonna rise soon and I’m going to hand him over to them.”

“Hollings?”

Angel sighed. Spike didn’t even know his name. “Yeah. The fucker that…that caught you.”

“Oh. Will you…will you hand me over as well?”

“No! Of course not. They’re looking for a vamp who committed all those murders and they’re going to get one.”

“But _I_ killed…killed all those people.” Spike’s eyes were shut again.

Angel knelt beside him and put a hand on top of Spike’s. “No. I won’t let you take the blame for them.”

“But—“

“Spike. It wasn’t your fault. I _saw_, okay? I saw.”

A tear slipped out of the corner of Spike’s left eye and Spike turned his head away. Angel stood again. “We’ll talk more later. Just stay put for a while.”

 

 

He’d timed it as carefully as he could. Just after sunset, Hollings awoke. Angel sat in the basement and watched him moan, and then blink his eyes, and then sit up. For a moment, he looked terribly confused.

“Consider yourself lucky,” Angel said. “You didn’t have to dig yourself out of a grave.”

Hollings lurched to his feet and then screeched and held his face in his hands as he involuntarily vamped out.

“I bet you’re pretty hungry right now,” Angel said. “I know how that feels.”

Hollings made an inarticulate noise, rushed to the bars, and shook them fiercely. “What did you do?” he cried. Unused to his fangs, he cut his lip, and Angel laughed.

“How’s it feel, Stephen? Now that you’re one of us.”

The new vampire prodded his fingers at his face, and then whimpered and fell to his knees.

Angel moved closer, until he could almost have reached out and touched Hollings. In a low voice, with a hint of a brogue, he said, “What I’d really like to do to you is let you rot down here forever, with a little torture thrown in for variety’s sake. Like you did to my boy. Lucky for you I’ve got a fecking soul, isn’t it? And a few loose ends to tie up. So let me tell you how it’s gonna go.” To his immense gratification, Hollings looked petrified.

“In a very short time, some of LA’s finest are going to show up. You’re going to tell them you were turned a couple years ago and you’re going to confess to killing every one of those people. I honestly don’t know what the criminal justice system is going to do with a vamp, but I can guarantee you it’ll be a lot better that what I’d do.

“You say one word to them about Spike, or about me turning you, and I promise you I will find a way to get to you, and you will be very, very sorry.” He allowed his eyes to flash yellow and a good bit of Angelus to show through. “Do you follow?”

Hollings swallowed convulsively and nodded. Angel hoped he’d obey, because it would make things a lot easier on him and Spike. But if he didn’t, if he did implicate Spike or Angel, Angel would still find a way out of the mess. It would just be more complicated, and Spike didn’t need any complications right now.

Angel left Hollings in the basement, crying and begging for a feeding, and went upstairs to wait for Detective Dunn.

Dunn arrived right on time, accompanied by two cops in plainclothes and several in uniform. Angel had briefed him over the phone on the basics of vampire management, and the officers were carrying heavy chains and sharpened stakes. They looked nervous, except for Dunn. He was smiling. “Where is he?” he asked.

“In the basement. What are you going to do with him?”

Dunn shrugged. “I dunno. It’s a little unclear whether the Bill of Rights applies to the undead. And can you sentence someone to death if they’re already dead? Ah, we got lawyers working on it. I’m just happy the murders will stop.”

“Until the next killer comes along.”

Dunn’s mouth quirked in a small grin. “Yeah, until then.”

 

For several days after, Spike never left the suite. Angel brought him some clothing of his own and he looked at it without much interest. He wasn’t eating enough, either, Angel thought. There was still plenty of blood in the fridge, but Spike looked as gaunt and wasted as he had the day Angel rescued him. Angel was pretty sure he was doing nothing but sleeping and staring into space. When Angel tried to talk to him, he answered in monosyllables, if at all.

In desperation, Angel bought a flatscreen tv and hauled it up to the suite. He set it up in front of the chair and pressed the remote into Spike’s slack hand. “Here,” he said. “There must be some soccer on. Or I can find you some DVDs of that show you liked so much. The one with the witches….”

“_Passions_,” Spike said, well, dispassionately.

“Yeah. Want me to?”

Spike sighed. “Nah.”

Angel opened his mouth, but he wasn’t sure what to say, and he closed it again.

Once or twice a day, he heard Spike crying, and his arms ached to hold him. But he knew Spike wouldn’t want comfort from him, so instead he sat miserably across the hall, trying to block out the sound of the sobbing.

 

Two weeks later, nothing had changed, and Angel was going slowly insane. He’d tried several times to engage Spike in something, even baited him a little to see if Spike would snark back, but Spike only gazed at him with those haunted blue eyes and then looked away.

His boy was broken, and Angel didn’t have the faintest idea how to fix him.

Things came to a head one evening when Angel walked into the suite carrying a bottle of Jameson. Spike was in the chair, as usual, now clad in his own black jeans and tee. The television was on in front of him, and at first Angel took that as a good sign, but then he noticed that _Dancing with the Stars_ was on, and Spike’s eyes weren’t focused on the screen.

“Hey,” Angel said, waving the bottle. “Want some?”

Spike only blinked, so Angel went to the kitchen and took a pair of glasses out of the cupboard. He poured a generous amount in each and then set one beside Spike before sitting in his usual chair. Spike picked up the whiskey and swallowed it all at once, then carefully put the glass back down.

Angel drank his down, too, and then took a deep breath. “Spike,” he began, then stopped. He inhaled again. “William. We need to talk.”

Spike looked at him impassively. “So talk,” he said. Angel noticed absently that his hair had started to grow out a little, and he wished he could run his fingers through it.

“What that fucker did…that was, was…really bad. And I understand why you’re kinda…shaken. But you can’t just sit here like this. It’s not right.”

Spike nodded slightly. “All right. I’ll leave tomorrow.”

“No!” Spike flinched when he yelled, so he lowered his voice. “I don’t want you to go. I want you to stay. I just…. You’re not strutting around, and you don’t call me pouf and steal my stuff, and you’re not…you’re not _Spike_.”

Vampire-fast, Spike swiped the empty glass and lamp off the little table and onto the floor, then leapt to his feet. “I’m not Spike!” he yelled. “That tosser is as dead as William Pratt! I’m just a fucking monster, a slave!” His face twisted in despair and he fell to his knees.

Angel dropped his own glass and fell beside him, and finally, finally, enfolded his boy’s trembling form in his arms. “No, no, no, you’re not,” he crooned. “You’re not.” And then all the words he’d been holding back came tumbling out and he couldn’t stop them. “You’re mine, my boy, my beautiful boy. I’m sorry, so sorry. Please forgive me. A chuisle mo chroí, a ghrá mo chroí, céadsearc, a **leanbh na páirte, is tú mo ghrá, a thaisce, a ghrá geal. My love, my own, my heart.”**

**As he went on, Spike gradually relaxed against him, his hard muscles softening and his stiff body yielding. Spike’s tears soaked through Angel’s shirt and Angel kept on murmuring apologies and endearments he thought he’d long since forgotten, and he stroked Spike’s shoulders and the back of his head, and he ignored the salty droplets running down his own cheeks.**

At long last, Spike pulled slightly back out of Angel’s embrace. His eyes were red but he looked at Angel in wonder. “Liam?” he said, sounding like a small child.

Angel caressed Spike’s cheek with the side of one hand. “You’re mine. Always have been, even if I didn’t know it.”

“How…how could you want _me_? You saw, you saw what I am, you know—“

“I saw you enduring the best you could under terrible circumstances. It doesn’t change anything. You’re _mine_.”

Spike took a great, shuddering breath and collapsed back into Angel’s arms.

 

The situation improved a little after that. Spike still spent most of his time sunk deep in a pool of despondency, but at least once in a while he’d surface enough to let Angel hold him, and for those brief times he seemed almost ready to believe in himself again. But then he’d erupt in screaming fits, or start crying again, or, worst of all, sit and stare blankly for hours.

Angel caught him hovering near the window one mid-day and became afraid to leave Spike alone. So he insisted that Spike tag along as Angel did his small chores. Angel took to sleeping with Spike as well, and he thought Spike enjoyed the consolation of his presence in bed. Once in a while, Spike would even roll over and throw an arm around Angel’s waist and curl himself against his grandsire, and Angel would card through his hair and listen to his soft breaths. There was nothing sexual about any of their contact. Not that Angel wasn’t tempted, but he didn’t know how Spike would react to that kind of touch after months of being raped. Especially when Angel—well, Angelus—had himself often taken him by force, once upon a time.

Spike still hadn’t left the Hyperion, not even when Angel offered to take him to a bar where the band played the kind of music that would make your ears bleed. The kind of music Spike liked.

One evening Angel and Spike were downstairs in Angel’s office. Angel was trying to find a reference in one of Wes’s old scrolls to Hyathim demons, but was struggling with it because the scroll was faded and written in Cumbric, and his Cumbric was rusty at best. Spike was flipping listlessly through a collection of essays by John Stuart Mill. They both jumped when Angel’s phone rang.

“Angel Investigations,” Angel said.

“Oh, hi. Um, I was hoping…. I was told maybe you could help me?” The woman sounded hesitant.

“I can try. What’s the problem?”

It took about 15 minutes for Angel to draw all the details out of her, but it turned out her apartment in Long Beach was infested with what sounded like Chreed demons. They were nasty little shits who crept around at night, feeding off humans’ nightmares. “I can be there in an hour,” he promised, and disconnected.

Spike was still paging aimlessly through his book, as if he hadn’t heard a word. “C’mon,” Angel said. “Let’s go take care of it.”

But Spike shook his head. “You go ahead.”

Angel huffed impatiently. “I’d like you to come with me.”

Spike threw the book on the floor and jumped to his feet. “You’ll do fine on your own. You don’t sodding need me.” And then he stomped out of the office and upstairs to their room.

Angel did exterminate the Chreedi, and the woman was suitably grateful, but what he was thinking about was a plan. He needed to make Spike feel useful. He needed to bring back the Big Bad.

 

It was another three weeks before the right opportunity presented itself. Spike had improved maybe a little bit in that time—at least now he stared at the tv instead of at nothing—but he was still uncharacteristically quiet and meek. He was having nightmares, too, and was horribly embarrassed when Angel had to comfort him after. Angel was still loathe to leave Spike alone, but he did have occasional work to do, and besides, Spike’s mood grew even darker when he suspected Angel was babysitting him.

Spike was slumped in what had once been Angel’s brooding chair, stonefaced, eyes glued to some program about brothers who fought supernatural evil. Angel stood in front of him, blocking his view of the screen. “C’mon, Spike. Let’s go.”

“’M not going anywhere.” Spike craned his neck, trying to see around Angel. Angel waited for the comment about moving his fat arse, but it didn’t come. He frowned.

“You can’t spend eternity in this room, Spike. Come with me. We’ll go to Tony’s.”

“No.”

“Just one drink.”

The old Spike would have dug in his heels, would have stubbornly refused to change his mind once it was set, and Angel would have had to beat him and probably bodily drag him away. But this Spike closed his eyes in resignation and then stood with his shoulders hunched.

Angel walked behind him as they descended the stairs. He thought about finding a new duster for Spike; Hollings had taken the old one and Spike didn’t look complete without it. He wasn’t sure how Spike would receive a gift like that from him, though, and he resolved to think about it more later.

Spike looked out the window as Angel drove. Apart from their return from Hollings’s place, this was the first time in over a year that Spike had been outside. His expression was blank, though, and Angel had no clue what thoughts were going through his head.

It was a slow night at Tony’s, just a dozen or so other demons and a human or two scattered around the room. Spike followed Angel to the usual table, and Vick materialized almost immediately. “Wha’ can I get you gents?” he asked.

Spike was staring resolutely at the table, so it was Angel who said, “We’ll take a couple shots of Jack.” Vick looked slightly surprised—it wasn’t Angel’s usual—but nodded and headed for the bar. Spike scooted down a little and looked like he wanted to melt into his seat.

“Look, Spike, I—“

“Give it up, Liam. Can’t save me. ‘M a lost cause.”

“No, you’re not,” Angel growled.

Spike crossed his arms and looked away. Vick appeared with their drinks, then Angel would have downed his in one shot, but he remembered his promise to Spike and resolved to make his one drink last a little while. He took a tiny sip. Spike didn’t hesitate to finish his off, though, and then he glared at Angel. Angel glared back.

“Hi, boys.” Sheila was smiling down at them. She wore a simple pink dress and she looked well-fed. She’d probably just come from the back room. “Haven’t seen you in ages, Angel. What’s up?” She cast a significant look at Spike and lifted one shapely eyebrow.

“Things are slow.”

“That fledge you were looking for? The Icepick Killer?” Spike winced, but she didn’t notice.

“He’s taken care of,” Angel replied shortly.

“Oh, good.” Sheila sat gracefully in one of the empty chairs. “Well, have you heard about those Pezers in Anaheim?”

Angel hadn’t—he didn’t have many contacts in Orange County—but his interest was piqued. Maybe this would be the chance he’d been looking for. “Tell me about them,” he said.

‘There are several, from what I heard. They’ve camped out at one of the hotels on Harbor Blvd. They’ve been causing trouble for days.”

Pezers were good at causing trouble. They could temporarily take possession of a human’s body, and then cause the human to do all sorts of things. Usually, they’d start fights, and sometimes the results were really violent. Angel had no idea why they did this, whether it satisfied a need for them the way blood did for vampires, or whether they just found it entertaining. In any case, they were bothersome at best.

He and Sheila chatted a few minutes longer. She was clearly dying to know more about Spike, but Spike didn’t say a word, and Angel ignored him for now. Eventually, a tall man walked in the door and caught her eye, and Sheila gave the other vampires a little wave and walked off to meet him.

Angel swallowed the rest of his whiskey and stood. “C’mon. We’re going to Anaheim.”

Spike’s eyes went wide. “No! You said one drink.”

Angel sighed. “I can’t ignore the problem, and I’m not going to drive all the way back to the hotel to drop you off. So either stay here by yourself or come with me.” It was a low blow, and he felt bad about it when Spike swallowed and looked around himself fearfully.

“Can’t…don’t want to stay alone,” he mumbled.

Angel clapped his shoulder. “Then come on.”

 

Angel had been afraid he’d have trouble tracking down the demons. There were a lot of hotels on Harbor Blvd. Almost as soon as he exited the freeway, though, he caught sight of the cluster of police cruisers in the Howard Johnson parking lot, and he steered the Viper to a stop close by. He was afraid Spike would insist on staying in the car, but apparently the younger vampire’s curiosity still survived, and he wordlessly followed Angel.

The lobby was fairly small, decorated in a retro underwater theme. Two clerks in their early twenties, a boy and a girl, cowered behind the curved desk, while the cops tried to calm a dozen hysterical humans. Nobody noticed as Angel and Spike slipped inside, and the two of them stood near the door as Angel tried to make some sense of what was going on.

A man was huddled on the floor in a pool of blood. His face was battered and it looked like he’d been knifed in one arm. It wasn’t a fatal wound, by Angel’s estimation, but it was messy. A police officer in blue latex gloves was tending to him. Beside them, a woman who must have been his wife cried loudly while two teenage boys looked on in shock. On the other side of the room, another man in his late thirties was handcuffed and yelling, as what appeared to be his family shouted at the cops who were trying to take him away. He had a bloody lip. A small knife lay on the floor between the two groups.

At first, Angel assumed that the man in cuffs was the one who was possessed. But then the injured guy glanced up, and Angel caught an inhuman glint in his eyes. He sidled over to the counter. “What happened?” he asked.

The girl looked like she might burst into tears. She pointed at the man on the floor. “That dude went after the other guy for no reason at all. Just clocked him out of the blue. And when the guy hit him back, the dude pulled out that knife. But the second guy wrestled it away from him, and somehow the first dude got cut, and—“

“Got it,” Angel said.

Exorcising Pezers was simple, once you knew where they were. Angel looked at Spike and gestured to him to watch the door. Then he strode over to the man on the floor. “Sir, you need to stand back,” said the cop with the gloves.

“I have medical training. I was a medic in the Army. Want me to take a look at him?”

The cop looked skeptical, but her partner, who was standing near the guy’s family, said, “Let him look, Gomez.”

Angel crouched down and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. The demonic eyes looked at him in sudden fear and Angel felt the man’s body tense, but then he quickly uttered the magic phrase: “Bevrijd onmiddellijk deze mens en vlucht hier van.”

The man’s eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed. “Just a little shock,” Angel muttered to the alarmed police officer. Then he stood just in time to see four wispy green and purple figures materialize a few feet away. Spike saw them, too, and maybe the clerks, but nobody else seemed to. The demons dashed for the door and out, with Spike right behind them.

Angel stood. “Um, he’ll be okay,” he said. “Gotta go!” And then he took off, too, before anyone could stop him.

At the far side of the parking lot, almost under the freeway, he caught a glimpse of movement. He loped off in that direction. Spike was on the ground, grappling with the demons. Angel thought about stepping in to help, but Pezers weren’t particularly tough to beat when they weren’t possessing someone, and he figured Spike could manage on his own. So he just watched as Spike and the demons rolled around on the blacktop. Spike grunted and the demons made tiny squeaking sounds. Angel looked nervously behind himself, but nobody had followed; the cops were, seemingly, still occupied with the chaos in the lobby.

Angel leaned against a nearby minivan.

A siren came screeching into the lot, and Angel turned to see an ambulance pulling up alongside the patrol cars. By the time he looked back at Spike, the demons were gone, and Spike was sitting on the ground and panting. He had several scratches across his face and torso, but nothing serious.

“Got ‘em all?” Angel asked.

“Yeah.”

Angel stuck out a hand, and Spike used it to pull himself to his feet. Together, they walked slowly to the Viper. Before he turned on the engine, Angel turned to Spike. “Thanks for your help, Spike. You did—“

“Wanker!” Spike yelled with such vehemence that Angel flinched back. “Bad enough I’m bloody ruined, I don’t need your fucking pity!”

“You’re not—I don’t—“

“Xander bloody Harris could have offed those gits with his good eye closed. Don’t pretend I’ve done some great bloody heroic deed.”

“Spike, I didn’t—It’s been a while. I thought maybe you needed to sort of get your feet wet, and—“

“Sod off!” To Angel’s complete horror, tears were streaming down Spike’s cheeks. He wanted to reach out and soothe him, but he suspected anything he did at this point was only going to make Spike angrier. Spike had turned away from him and his hands were on the door, and Angel was certain he was going to run off into the night any second.

He didn’t, though. He buried his face in his hands and keened and rocked himself back and forth.

Well, that plan went well. Angel swallowed thickly and drove them home.

 

When they reached the Hyperion, Spike stomped off to the basement without a word. Angel had found him down there a few times before, when Spike was in the deepest depths of despair. He’d curled up in a small ball in a corner, jammed between some boxes and a pile of cloth-covered furniture. Those times, Angel had been able to hold him and stroke him and, eventually, coax him out. Tonight, though, he knew Spike didn’t want him near.

Angel trudged sadly up the stairs. He knew he was screwing this up. He was trying, he really was, but he wasn’t all that great with other people even when he’d been human, and the addition of a demon, decades of solitude, his little vacation in hell—none of that had improved his social skills very much. He wished there was someone he could talk to for advice, but of course there was nobody. Spike was all he had left.

Grumbling to himself about the sad shortage of demon psychiatrists, and wondering whether Prozac might work on the undead, Angel heated himself a mug of blood. It tasted like shit and he had to force himself to drink it.

It was still very early by vampire standards, but he suddenly realized he was completely exhausted. Every one of his years hung on him like a weight. So he stripped and splashed some water on his face and crawled into bed.

He was deep in a dreamless sleep when Spike woke him by slipping into the sheets beside him. Angel was groggily relieved. Maybe that meant Spike had forgiven him for his clumsy attempt to help. Angel felt even more thankful a moment later, when Spike scooted over and plastered his cold body against Angel’s.

But a moment later, Angel was suddenly wide awake as Spike’s hand settled on the front of his boxers. “Spike!” he squawked.

Without moving his hand, Spike propped himself on an elbow and looked down at Angel. His eyes were wide and glistening in the dim room, his cheekbones sharp as blades. “Please. Please, Angel. Need this.”

Angel took a deep breath. Ever since he’d brought Spike back, he’d been thinking about this, dreaming about it, remembering the feel of that tightly muscled body under his so long ago, and then that one time. He’d been jerking off in the shower daily. But now that it was a reality, he found himself impaled neatly on the cruel horns of a dilemma. He wanted it badly, Spike was goddamn _begging_ him for it, but he didn’t want to take advantage of his boy, didn’t want to take unless Spike was truly willing to give.

He hesitated too long. Spike made a sound somewhere between a snarl and a sob and tore himself away. He lurched across the room and toward the still-open door. Angel got caught up in the bedding as he tried to follow and went crashing heavily to the floor. But he quickly scrambled to his feet and ran after Spike.

Spike was heading for the stairs. Angel called his name but he didn’t turn, so Angel ran even faster, grabbing Spike’s bare shoulders from behind just before he reached the first step. “Wait!”

Spike stopped but didn’t turn around. “Sorry,” he murmured.

“There’s nothing to apologize for.”

Spike did turn then, and his face was twisted with sorrow. “I disgust you.”

“No! Jesus, no. You just…you kinda took me by surprise, that’s all.”

Spike looked disbelieving, so Angel pulled him close and bent down a little to brush his lips against one slightly protruding ear. “You do _not_ disgust me,” he enunciated clearly. “God, you have no idea how bad I want you, how fucking hungry I am for you.”

Spike made a small, animal sound and crashed his body against Angel’s. At the same time, he turned his head and their lips met, and Angel was moaning as he tasted his boy for the first time since they’d kissed in his office at Wolfram &amp; Hart. Spike’s soft lips were parted and he allowed Angel to thrust his tongue inside, to sweep against his palate and in back of his blunt teeth. Angel slid his hands down from Spike’s shoulders and across his strong back, down to the silky smoothness of his buttocks, which he cupped firmly and used to press their pelvises against one another.

Spike’s cock was hard, pushing insistently at the slightly soft flesh above the waistline of Angel’s boxers. Angel was equally hard, his balls aching with dizzying need. At this rate, he was going to come right in his shorts, especially if Spike kept on making that desperate little moaning sound deep in his chest. With the greatest effort of will, he moved his hands to Spike’s hips and pushed him slightly away. “Bed,” he said hoarsely.

Spike’s eyes were wide and glassy and he was panting. He nodded. Angel slung an arm around Spike’s waist and they stumbled almost drunkenly to their suite. Angel was so hard it hurt to walk.

When they reached the bed, Angel didn’t bother to step out of his boxers—he just tore them right off before collapsing backward onto the mattress, pulling Spike down on top of him. Spike immediately started humping and writhing, slipping his open mouth over Angel’s jaw and neck and chest, then sucking on one sensitive nipple. Angel clutched at Spike’s ass. The heavy muscles flexed and contracted under his palms, driving him nearly senseless with desire.

But no, he thought. He ought to be the one worshiping Spike’s body, giving it the devotion it was due. He rolled them over. Spike looked up at him, his gaze searching Angel’s face. Angel hoped his feelings were plainly written there, because he could not have managed a coherent sentence if he’d tried.

Now it was Angel’s turn to mouth and lick and nibble at Spike’s skin, to suckle the buds of his nipples until Spike gasped, to nuzzle at the soft nest of curls between Spike’s legs, to blow cool puffs of air over Spike’s balls and reddened, leaking cock. But when he moved to take the shining head of that cock between his lips, Spike made a strangled noise and pulled hard at Angel’s hair.

“Don’t,” Spike breathed. “Won’t last. Want you in, please, god, please.”

Angel spread Spike’s legs wide and tickled the tip of his tongue at Spike’s dusky little pucker. Spike’s fingers spasmed against his scalp as Angel licked the very edge of the ring of muscle and then slowly, gently pushed inside.

He wanted to take his time, he really did, but within moments Spike was thrashing and undulating almost frantically, so Angel pressed in first one finger, then two, feeling the muscles loosen and soften. When he inserted his middle finger just a little more and brushed it against the little bump inside of Spike, Spike cried out and arched his back, then savagely grabbed the base of his own cock.

“Liam, now, please! Can hurt me if you want. Please!”

Angel’s stomach clenched at these words. He always had hurt Spike when they’d done this before. Angelus had enjoyed it more that way, with the scent of Spike’s blood and the sound of Spike’s howls. But he didn’t want that now, not this time. He carefully withdrew his fingers and stood.

Spike looked at him with a mixture of anguish and near-panic. “Don’t—Don’t stop, please, don’t—“

Angel bent and kissed the slippery tip of Spike’s cock. “Just gonna get some lube, baby. Be right back.”

“You don’t need—“

“I don’t want to hurt you, Spike.”

As fast as a vampire could go, Angel rushed up the stairs to the room he’d been sleeping in for the past several years, until he’d brought Spike back from captivity. There was a tub of Boy Butter there—he liked the scent of coconut—and he grabbed it and dashed back down to the suite, where Spike was waiting anxiously. He waved the tub around a little and Spike actually smiled. It was the first time Angel had seen him smile in years and, impossibly, it made Angel even harder.

He wasted very little time in smearing a generous dollop of the stuff inside Spike’s twitching hole, and then another on his own throbbing cock. And then, with more eagerness than finesse, he lined himself up and drove inside with one long thrust.

He and Spike groaned in stereo, and Angel immediately froze. It had been a very, very long time since he’d done this, and Spike was so tight around him, so good. He had to collect himself or it would be over much too soon.

Spike’s eyes were searching his face again. “You okay?” Angel asked.

“Yeah. God, yes.” As if to emphasize his point, Spike squeezed Angel’s ass. “Just move, yeah?”

Angel laughed. He couldn’t remember when he’d done that last, and it felt so good he did it again, and then he did start moving, slowly at first, but he couldn’t keep that up for long, and soon enough his hips were jerking and plunging, faster and harder. Spike was arching up to meet every thrust. His head was thrown back and his eyelids fluttered, and every time Angel got the angle just right Spike cried out and his smooth muscles clenched around Angel’s cock.

Spike was beautiful, the most beautiful thing Angel had ever seen. Every bit of him, demon and human, reveled in his possession of this wondrous creature, in the way his movements made Spike tremble and moan beneath him, in the intensity with which those summer sky eyes locked onto his, demanding that he give more of himself.

He wasn’t in danger of being perfectly happy, of shedding his soul like an old layer of skin. He and Spike had too much history, together and apart, and it tinged their coupling with a touch of bittersweetness. That was okay. Like pain and pleasure, sadness and joy were inextricably intertwined. Each made the other more poignant.

Spike caught his own lip in his teeth, and that made Angel think he’d like a nibble, too. Still pistoning hard, he bent down and captured Spike’s mouth with his. That trapped Spike’s cock between them, and the extra stimulation must have been exactly enough for Spike, because his body stiffened and then convulsed under Angel’s, and he roared against Angel’s lips. Cool fluid bathed Angel’s belly. Then the rhythmic ripples of Spike’s inner muscles brought Angel to the edge and tipped him over. He cried out so loud over his own release that his throat felt hoarse.

When Angel was able to breathe properly again, he slowly withdrew his softening cock from Spike and rolled off to the side. They were a sticky mess, but he didn’t care, and neither did Spike. They softly nuzzled and nipped at each other for a while, as lovers do, and Angel called Spike his boy, his own, his heart, in as many languages as he knew.

Spike squeezed his eyes shut and leaned his forehead against Angel’s. “My sire,” he said. “My soul.”

[Chapter Nine](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/77624.html)

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[](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/0005khkx/g63)  
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	10. One of Your Kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Several years post-NFA, Angel investigates a series of killings. Is Spike the culprit or a victim?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fic is complete and I'll post daily. It has 10 chapters plus the prologue and an epilogue. Huge thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)and [](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/profile)[**blondebitz**](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/)and [](http://zoesmith.livejournal.com/profile)[**zoesmith**](http://zoesmith.livejournal.com/)for the fantastic banners!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[one of your kind](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/one%20of%20your%20kind), [spangel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spangel)  
  
---|---  
  
_**One of Your Kind, 9/10**_  
**Title: **One of Your Kind   
**Chapter:** 9/10   
**Pairing:** Spike/Angel   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Warnings:** non-con, torture, angst, language, m/m   
**Summary:** Several years post-NFA, Angel investigates a series of killings. Is Spike the culprit or a victim?   
**Author's Note:** The fic is complete and I'll post daily. It has 10 chapters plus the prologue and an epilogue. Huge thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)and [](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/profile)[**blondebitz**](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/)and [](http://zoesmith.livejournal.com/profile)[**zoesmith**](http://zoesmith.livejournal.com/)for the fantastic banners!

**Umm...next to last chapter tonight. I'll post Chapter 10 and the Epilogue tomorrow.**

 

[Previous chapters here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=One+of+Your+Kind&filter=all)

 

 

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/0005yz3y/g63)  
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**  
CHAPTER NINE**

 

Spike woke first. It was still daytime, and for a short time he luxuriated in bed, watching Angel sleep. He felt sore in all the right places.

When Angel began to stir, Spike got out of bed and pulled on some clothes. He didn’t bathe first—he wanted to keep Angel’s scent on him and in him. He crept quietly to the kitchenette and heated mugs of blood for himself and Angel. He drank his own quickly, trying not to grimace at the taste, and then brought Angel’s to the bedside.

A part of him was afraid Angel would be angry when he woke, or embarrassed, or maybe would pretend the previous night never happened. But when Angel opened his eyes and saw Spike standing there, he smiled broadly, that beautiful grin Spike had seen so rarely, and sat up. “Hi, baby,” he said. He reached for the cup and took a big swig. “Thanks.”

He put the mug on his nightstand and reached out to caress Spike’s arm. “How are you doing today?”

Spike smiled back at him. “Well-shagged.”

“I aim to please.”

Angel hopped out of bed. Although Spike had seen him naked innumerable times, his breath nearly caught at the beauty of his grandsire’s well-muscled form, at his soft, heavy cock, at his long, lightly haired legs. Angel caught him staring and laughed, then grabbed Spike’s shoulders for a fast, passionate kiss.

When they pulled apart, Angel reached for the clothing he’d discarded beside the bed. “I need to make some calls. I think there may be a few ruffled feathers in Anaheim over last night. I’ll see if my LAPD contacts can help smooth them. When I’m done, how about a bath?”

Spike looked Angel in the eyes. “A bath sounds lovely.”

“Good.” Angel pulled on his trousers and buttoned them up. He didn’t bother with a shirt. Spike watched the play of the muscles across his back, the way his tattoo bunched and stretched as he moved. He longed to touch, but he didn’t. Angel left the suite.

There was a pad of paper and pen in the kitchen. Spike picked them up, thought for a moment, and began to write. But then he stopped and tore the top sheet away. He crumpled it and threw it in the rubbish bin under the sink. Then he pulled on his boots. They were new and he’d hardly worn them. Out of long habit, he looked around for his duster, then sighed when of course it wasn’t there.

He found the keys to the Viper beside the bed.

He’d worried a bit about getting through the lobby, but Angel was in his office, talking loudly on the phone. The old sod had never quite seemed to grasp that you didn’t need to shout to be heard on one of those things. Spike crept quietly, wincing when one of his boot soles squeaked on the tile, but he made it to the front door without Angel hearing him. He inched the door open and slipped outside into the twilight.

As usual, the Viper was parked right in front. Spike turned the key and the engine roared to life. For a brief moment he mourned his long lost DeSoto. He’d enjoyed nicking the Viper now and then, back at Wolfram &amp; Hart and then in the time after, but that was more for the reaction he got from Angel than from any real love for the car itself. His tastes ran more to classics, big monsters that rumbled and boomed, that you could bloody well live in if you had to.

Traffic was still heavy as Spike made his way down Wilshire Blvd. That was fine. He had some time. He continued slowly past the fancy shops and shiny office buildings, then turned onto Santa Monica, where the buildings became smaller and more modest— a window tinting place, a thrift shop, a video rental outlet, a few small restaurants, a triplex or two. Then he passed a collection of car dealerships and the neighborhood went more upscale before the street finally ended just a couple blocks from the ocean.

He had to go down a few blocks to make his way to the waterfront itself. He pulled into a large car park that was mostly empty and deliberately stopped the car in a handicapped spot. He didn’t mean to make it impossible for Angel to get his car back, and he expected that this way it would be impounded and he could track it down.

The night air was a bit chilly. Spike kicked off his boots and left them on the passenger seat. He put the keys in the glove box and locked the door behind him. Then he walked across the rough pavement and down onto the sand.

He could have walked up the beach for a while, but suddenly he hadn’t the energy. He found a little hillock of sand and collapsed onto it, facing toward the Pacific. The waves roiled in, crashing endlessly, foam shining in the moonlight.

He’d hated the seaside when he was a child. His mother would take him to Brighton by railway, and they’d be crammed in the uncomfortable train carriage before making their way down to the sea. Then they’d jam themselves into bathing machines, try to change into their swimming costumes in the pitch dark, and be dragged into the water. Depending on the weather, he’d spend the day either itchy and cold or itchy and hot. Their food was always sticky and horrible. When William grew older, the bigger, more boisterous boys would inevitably set on him for repeated dunkings, or laugh as he tried to find his way around, half-blind without his spectacles. He preferred London.

After he’d been turned, he’d had a whole string of miserable trips by ship, always hidden away amongst the cargo. On longer journeys, if he didn’t want to give his presence away by the periodic disappearance of passengers and crew who’d become his lunch, he was forced to feed off vermin or starve.

And then there had been that fun little time in the submarine, first with the Nazis and then with Angel.

No, he’d never much fancied the sea.

When he’d arrived in California, though, he’d finally realized the appeal of warm, sandy beaches. Of course, by then people were parading on those beaches wearing considerably less than the woolen suits of his youth, and that could be quite interesting in itself. Dru loved to come down to the beach and dance under the stars. She said she could hear the fishes singing to her. Once in Brazil she’d ripped off all her clothing and run up and down the sand, laughing and telling him she was going to be a mermaid next. He’d had a bloody hard time of it, trying to catch her before the sun came up. He’d had to dash away and snatch a sleeping baby from a hut nearby, and use it to lure her back to his side. Another dead child on his tally-sheet.

The one thing he’d never been able to do, of course, was sit on a beach in the sun, trying to get a tan. Perhaps he’d be the type who only burned, or went all freckled. It was a shame he’d never see Angel in the sun, he thought, because he reckoned he’d turn deliciously golden brown.

Spike shivered a bit and fell back in the soft sand. He slowly swept his arms and legs back and forth and then laughed aloud. Sand angel.

He’d had a lovely time with Angel, early in the morning. He hadn’t expected his grandsire to be so gentle with him, to take such care over Spike’s pleasure. He hadn’t planned on such tender kisses, nor for the glorious feeling of Angel filling him. For a time, he’d nearly been able to convince himself that Angel truly meant the words he’d said, the endearments in English and Gaelic and French and Italian and a dozen other languages that meant Spike was treasured and loved. For those brief moments, he’d been able to pretend the dream he’d held for 130 years had come to be. Those brief moments were as much as he could ever hope for.

Somewhere far away he heard a police siren and the hum of traffic. But the air smelled of salt and seaweed and the tiny creatures that lived in the waves, rather than of smog and hot concrete. He wondered what sorts of demons lived in the Pacific, and what it would be like to be one of them. Were there aquatic vampires who fed on the cold blood of fishes, or underwater beasts with horns and scales who slurped down mussels and frolicked with the dolphins? Perhaps Drusilla had been right, and there really were merfolk combing their long green tresses and trying to tempt unwary sailors.

He wished he could see Dru one last time. He really had loved her, even if he was only a substitute for her beloved Daddy. He wondered what had become of her after he’d rejected her for Buffy. Had she found someone to protect her, to keep her safe from her own barmy notions? He was glad, though, he’d never encountered her after he regained his soul. Angel might have been capable of staking Darla, but Spike didn’t think he’d have been able to do the same to his own sire. He should hope she was dust, he reckoned, instead of out committing more murder and mayhem. But at her core was a tortured girl. It was hardly her fault she’d been made into a monster.

And, Spike thought, he expected he ought to be grateful to mas—to the bastard who’d held him. Hollings. Since he’d burned in Sunnydale, Spike had become used to thinking of himself as a hero, a champion. As a man, almost. Hollings had reminded him what he really was.

After a long time, Spike sat up again and wrapped his arms around his knees and watched the ever-moving water. It wasn’t quite right, he knew. Perhaps he was too poor of a poet to emulate Shelley and go down with a ship, but at least it would be nice if the Pacific faced the right way. He’d have liked to watch the sun rise over the ocean.

[Chapter Ten](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/77933.html)

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/000602es/g63)  
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[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/0005khkx/g63)  
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	11. One of Your Kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Several years post-NFA, Angel investigates a series of killings. Is Spike the culprit or a victim?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fic is complete and I'll post daily. It has 10 chapters plus the prologue and an epilogue. Huge thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)and [](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/profile)[**blondebitz**](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/)and [](http://zoesmith.livejournal.com/profile)[**zoesmith**](http://zoesmith.livejournal.com/)for the fantastic banners!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[one of your kind](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/one%20of%20your%20kind), [spangel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spangel)  
  
---|---  
  
_**One of Your Kind, 10/10**_  
**Title: **One of Your Kind   
**Chapter:** 10/10 plus Epilogue   
**Pairing:** Spike/Angel   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Warnings:** non-con, torture, angst, language, m/m   
**Summary:** Several years post-NFA, Angel investigates a series of killings. Is Spike the culprit or a victim?   
**Author's Note:** The fic is complete and I'll post daily. It has 10 chapters plus the prologue and an epilogue. Huge thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)and [](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/profile)[**blondebitz**](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/)and [](http://zoesmith.livejournal.com/profile)[**zoesmith**](http://zoesmith.livejournal.com/)for the fantastic banners!

**I'll post the Epilogue shortly. :-)**

 

[Previous chapters here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=One+of+Your+Kind&filter=all)

 

 

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/whichclothes/pic/0005yz3y/g63)  
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**  
CHAPTER TEN**

 

Feathers were indeed ruffled in Anaheim, but Dunn promised to deal with it. He was still pleased as punch over having Hollings tightly in custody. Apparently, the lawyers had been spending the last few weeks hotly debating what the hell to do with a vampire. Most people didn’t really want news of his existence to get out, but there was also a lot of pressure from the media to produce the Icepick Killer.

“They’re gonna be arguing over this one for years,” Dunn said. “Brought in some pretty big guns, too. I hear the feds are all over it.”

“So where is he?”

Dunn chuckled. “Oh, we’ve made a special place just for him. It’s an admin seg cell at the jail. Courts stopped us from using it on humans years and years ago, but they didn’t say anything about vamps. It’s a metal hole in the ground, about seven feet cubed. It’s got a slot so we can dump in some blood now and then. That demon is not a happy camper.”

Angel felt a small tingle of pleasure unfurl in his chest. The bastard deserved worse for what he’d done to Spike and those children and all the rest, but this would do for now. “Good,” Angel said.

“So there’s been some nasty shit happening over in Lynwood, some kinda drug-related gang war, and I’m pretty sure not all the gangsters are human.”

Angel sighed. “Look—I have some issues to deal with right now. Can you handle it without me?”

“Yeah, sure. Hey, I’ve been thinking of a nice long vacation myself. The wife’s been shoving cruise brochures in my hands, and that’s sounding better and better.”

“So take some time, Detective. You’ve earned it.”

“You, too, Angel.”

After Angel hung up, he spent a long time at his desk, rubbing his fingers against his temples. The thing with Spike—that had been spectacular. He still couldn’t quite believe it had really happened. He could still taste Spike on his tongue, still smell him on his body. But he wasn’t stupid enough to believe that one good shag—one _very_ good shag—was going to solve their problems. Spike needed help healing, and Angel wasn’t at all sure he’d be capable of providing the support Spike needed.

With a heavy sigh, he stood. At least for now, maybe things would be peaceful for a while. Maybe Spike would be willing to talk to him a little in the intimacy of a bath. Maybe Spike would even just come out and tell Angel what Spike needed from him, how Angel could help him without breaking him any more.

 

Spike wasn’t in the suite. Okay, that wasn’t anything to panic over. But he wasn’t in any of the other places he tended to haunt, either: not up on the roof, looking out toward the lights of downtown, not back in Angel’s office, leafing through books, not even down in his retreat in the basement. He didn’t answer when Angel hurried through the halls, calling his name. Angel couldn’t even catch a scent of him that was less than a couple hours old.

But it was only when he noticed two things that fear rushed through his mind like fire. One was his keys, or rather the lack of his keys. He always kept them beside the bed when they weren’t in his pants, but now they were gone. And the other was the pad of paper on the armchair, when it was supposed to be on the kitchen counter.

He looked at the pad and saw that it was blank. But a pen had scored deeply enough into the paper that he could almost read it. Okay, he did know one or two things about being a detective. He reached under the sink and pulled out the trashcan and then, with a noise of small triumph, pulled out a crumpled piece of paper.

In careful, old fashioned script, the paper read:

_Dear Liam,_

_I can’t do this. Find someone who can still be salvaged. I lo_

Underneath, Spike had apparently tried to write some more, but whatever it was was obscured in heavy pen marks.

Angel fought the urge to fall to his knees and howl. No, no, no. He couldn’t lose him, not now, now when he’d only just acknowledged his feelings to himself, not when he’d had Spike in his arms, in his bed.

Angel hastily threw on a shirt and slipped his feet into shoes. He ran down the stairs feeling like he was caught in one of those horrible dreams where it’s as if you’re running through molasses. Only at the door did he pause to gather his racing thoughts.

Spike had taken the Viper. That was a problem, because it left Angel without transportation, but it was also a good thing. It meant he hadn’t just fallen on a sharp piece of wood somewhere. But where had he gone? The last time he’d left he’d fled to Europe, apparently. At least that’s what he’d told Angel during one of his rare recent bouts of talking. Maybe he was planning to go back. Or maybe…oh, fuck, he could be anywhere.

Angel slammed his fist into the wall in frustration.

Okay, it was time to use his head for once.

He pulled out his phone and dialed a familiar number. It only rang once before a voice answered.

“Dunn.”

“Hey. It’s Angel again.”

“You having second thoughts about that thing in Lynwood? I can—“

“No, not that,” Angel interjected impatiently. “I need a favor from you. Please.”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“I need to find my car. Right away.”

“Someone stole your car? I know it’s a nice ride, Angel, but that’s hardly a good reason-“

“It’s not the car I care about. I need to find…the guy who took it. It’s important.”

There was a brief pause. “Is this one of those issues you mentioned having to deal with?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it is. Please, Dunn. I’ll do whatever—“

“Okay. I’ll put it out there. It’s a Viper, right?”

“Yeah, an ’03. Black. License number 4XYR392.”

“Got it.”

“It’s…it’s really important to me, okay?”

The Detective’s voice was unexpectedly compassionate. “Sure, Angel. We’ll do our best.”

Angel thanked him and hung up.

Finding Spike now was going to be harder than finding a needle in a haystack, but Angel couldn’t stand to just sit around the hotel waiting for a phone call like a teenage girl.

The Deep End was less than a mile away. It wasn’t really his kind of place, but it was close, and maybe there was somebody there from whom he could beg, borrow, or steal a car. He ran there as swiftly as he could and arrived minutes later. The bouncer took in his disheveled appearance with a scowl, but he knew Angel, and didn’t try to stop him from entering. Inside, the evening was in full swing. Loud music pounded out of speakers and demons of every conceivable description writhed, wriggled, and swayed on the dance floor. A Ykortkal with blue fur and silvery wings caught at his arm as he brushed by, trying to draw him into a dance, but Angel flashed a little fang at her, uh…it? Ykortkals had three sexes and he had no idea which pronoun to use. In any case, his snarl worked, and the demon quickly dropped his arm and turned to a nearby purplish thing with scales instead.

The bar was near the back of the place, and Angel caught a familiar face there. He grabbed the vampire by the shoulders. “Give me your car keys,” he demanded.

The vamp, a tall Asian guy with long hair, looked panicked. “Hey, man! I’ve been good! I’ve only been feeding on the willing, I promise, and that girl, she told me she was nineteen. Really!”

Angel growled. “I don’t fucking care. Your keys, asshole.”

The vampire quickly fumbled in his pockets and pulled out a keyring, which Angel snatched out of his hand.

“Where is it?” Angel asked.

“Just around the corner. Hey, it’s mine, all honest and everything. Check the registration, you’ll see. This guy in Laguna Hills traded me for—“

Angel didn’t hear the rest of it because he was already striding back towards the exit.

Much to his chagrin, the car turned out to be old Saturn sedan, dark green, with a big ugly scrape along the passenger side door. Swearing under his breath, Angel climbed in. He circled the neighborhood a few times, but of course Spike was long gone. So then he decided to check out Tony’s. Maybe somebody there had seen him.

Tony’s was much quieter than The Deep End, with only a few people drinking or conversing quietly. Sheila was there, though, chatting with a middle-aged man. She smiled widely when she saw Angel.

“Hi, sweetheart! Back so soon?”

“You remember the vampire I was with last night?”

“Sure. Face like that’s real hard to forget.” She smiled lasciviously.

“Have you seen him tonight?”

She shook her head. “No, sorry. He’s new in town, isn’t he?”

“Not really. Look, if you see him—“

“I’ll give you a call, sweetheart.”

Nobody else in the bar had seen him either, nor had anyone at The Pit, or The Blue Feather, or any of the other bars he stopped in. Probably Spike hadn’t stopped for a drink—he hadn’t exactly been in a bar-hopping mood, of late—but Angel didn’t know where else to turn. For all he knew, Spike could be in Mexico by now, or halfway to Oregon, or in Vegas, or…or fucking anywhere.

 

Angel sat in the Saturn somewhere in Burbank. He’d found no sign of Spike or the Viper. He closed his eyes and brought his hands to his face. They still smelled of Spike.

Maybe this was best, he thought. Spike should get out of LA, where all his memories must be bitter. Angel was no good for him. It was stupid of Angel to have thought that the same vampire who had once spent decades torturing and raping Spike, and later spent years berating and beating him, would somehow be able to help him heal now. Just loving someone wasn’t enough. He should have learned that lesson from Buffy and Cordelia. From Connor.

Angel shut his eyes and contemplated an eternity spent alone.

After some immeasurable time, he sat up and checked the clock on his phone. He had less than an hour until dawn. He might make it on time. He gunned the car’s little engine and pulled away from the curb.

He was almost at the interchange between the 405 and the 10, weaving impatiently through early commuter traffic, when his phone rang. He couldn’t help but grin a little. At some point in the last week or so Spike had found the thing and programmed it to play “Can’t Smile without You.”

Angel fumbled for it and flipped it open. “Yeah?”

“Angel, Dunn.” Angel felt every muscle in his body grow tense. “We found your car.”

Oh, thank fuck, he thought. What he said was, “Where?”

“Santa Monica. That big lot just north of the pier. Nobody’s in it, though.”

Angel nearly rear-ended the Lexus in front of him as his stomach clenched and his vision momentarily skewed. It was exactly where he’d been heading himself. Spike hadn’t been intending to leave, at least not the way Angel had thought.

Angel must have hung up, because both his hands were gripping the steering wheel so hard that the plastic cracked. He abruptly swerved onto the shoulder and, ignoring the rich variety of hand gestures from the other drivers, zoomed past the crawling traffic until he got to the next off-ramp.

Traffic was moving a little faster on the surface streets, but not fast enough, and by the time he’d gone only a few blocks he’d vamped out and was growling with frustration. Then, only a few blocks from the pier, he hit a nasty snarl caused by a fender-bender. He leaped out of the car, not bothering to turn off the engine or even close the door behind him, and ran.

The people sitting in their motionless cars talking on their cell phones or sipping coffee or singing along with their radios gawked at him. Probably not too often they saw a vampire as they were on their way to work. He didn’t care.

Soon he made it to the lot, which was nearly empty except for the Viper. He dashed over to the car but, as Dunn had said, it was empty. A pair of familiar black boots were nestled neatly on the passenger seat.

The sky was already brightening and the exposed skin on Angel’s face and the back of his hands began to prickle. Oh, Christ, he thought, what if he’s not here? The car could have been here all night. What if he’d taken off down the beach, or—no, it was too unsupportable. Angel ran faster than he ever had before, down to the sand.

He stopped breathing entirely when he saw the small figure in black. The man had short honey brown hair, the stubble just barely long enough to start curling. He stood facing the waves, his back to Angel, with his arms upraised above his head. Smoke was starting to curl from his body. As it was from Angel’s. Angel’s nostrils filled with the scent of burning flesh.

With a final burst of speed he would have thought impossible, Angel swooped down on Spike. He grabbed the startled vampire’s arm and dragged him away. Flames were licking at his back and at Spike’s head when they plunged into the water under the pier.

They both came up sputtering and in gameface. Spike immediately launched himself at Angel, wrapping his hands around Angel’s neck and shoving him back under the water. But Angel got his feet underneath him—the water was shallow here—and put Spike in a headlock. Together they struggled, rolling in the waves, snarling and swearing, filling their stomachs and lungs with seawater.

Only when they were both thoroughly battered and exhausted did they crawl out onto the sand, retching and coughing. They collapsed next to each other on their backs and gazed at the underside of the pier. Angel hacked up another gout of brine and remembered another time Spike had, indirectly, caused him to end up beneath a pier. Now, his back hurt where sand and salt rubbed into his burns.

“Pillock,” Spike finally said.

“Drama queen.”

Spike rolled his head and looked at Angel. “Your face is burnt.”

“So’s yours.”

“What were you playing at, out in the sun like that? You could have—“

“I was rescuing your sorry carcass, that’s what.”

Spike sat up, groaned, and fell back again. “Didn’t ask you to, twat. Should get that through your bloody mick head. ‘M not one of your damsels in distress.”

“Yeah, well, I’m pretty well aware you’re not a damsel, Spike.”

“You’re not going to earn your bloody redemption saving me!” Spike’s voice was a hoarse shout and he struggled to a seated position again.

But Angel sat up, too, and yelled back. “I don’t care about any fucking redemption, moron!”

“Then why the daring rescues? Because you pity me? You can save that for someone—“

“I don’t fucking pity you! I saved you because I love you, asshole!”

They were both shocked by Angel’s words and sat staring at each other a moment. Then Spike took a deep breath and shook his head. “You don’t. You just feel you need your penance for what Angelus did to me. Well, you can forget that. What Angelus did wasn’t nearly as bad—“ He stopped abruptly and looked away.

“Nearly as bad as Hollings? At least he didn’t—“

“Not what I was going to say.”

“Then what?”

Spike swallowed audibly, and then spoke so quietly Angel could barely hear him over the crashing surf. “Angelus wasn’t nearly as bad as you, later. Least he didn’t…disregard me.”

Angel felt sick. “Is that why you were going to dust yourself? Because of how I treated you? Because lately—“

“Lately you’ve been treating me like fragile china. Funny that—I’m already too broken for it to matter.” He laughed bitterly. “Knew you’d tire of me soon, like you always did Dru.”

Angel knee-walked over to Spike and seized his shoulders. “Tire of you? You idiot! I thought you’d left me. I was on my way to this beach to greet the sun myself, because I can’t fucking go on without you!”

Spike’s mouth fell open in astonishment before a veil of cynicism fell across his features. “Right. More sentimental shite that you think will save me.”

Only the hurt he saw deep in Spike’s eyes allowed Angel to suppress the urge to sock him. “It’s not shit, Spike. It’s the truth. You’re all I have. All that matters anymore. If I lose you I can’t go on. All the rest are gone, and Connor….” He fought to keep his voice from breaking. “I need you, William. I _need_ you.”

Spike softened. “I’m not…. I’m no good, Liam. Ruined.”

“No. You’re not.” He stroked a thumb along Spike’s blackened cheekbone and Spike shut his eyes tightly. “God, I know I’m really crappy at this. Just tell me what you want from me. Please. Anything. I’ll try to be what you need, I promise.”

Spike’s lids opened and he tilted his head up a bit. For long moments he regarded Angel much as he had the previous morning, as if he was searching there for something he’d lost. And then Angel thought he saw a tiny spark in the blue, a small hint of hope, maybe. Spike said, “Just…value me, yeah? That’s all I need.”

Angel let out a long, noisy breath. “I can do that.”

They fell into a tight embrace there on their knees in the sand, and their lips found each other for a hard and passionate kiss that tasted of saltwater and scorched skin.

When they finally parted, they both looked out at the bright sun, brilliant in a cloudless blue sky. Angel scratched his cheek. “So, um…there’s no way we’re gonna make it to the Viper without incinerating.”

Spike’s lips twisted in a tiny grin that warmed Angel to his core. “I reckon we’ll be spending the day on a seaside holiday, then.”

[Epilogue](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/78317.html)

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	12. One of Your Kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Several years post-NFA, Angel investigates a series of killings. Is Spike the culprit or a victim?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fic is complete and I'll post daily. It has 10 chapters plus the prologue and an epilogue. Huge thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)and [](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/profile)[**blondebitz**](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/)and [](http://zoesmith.livejournal.com/profile)[**zoesmith**](http://zoesmith.livejournal.com/)for the fantastic banners!

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[one of your kind](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/one%20of%20your%20kind), [spangel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spangel)  
  
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_**One of Your Kind, Epilogue**_  
**Title: **One of Your Kind   
**Chapter:** Epilogue   
**Pairing:** Spike/Angel   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Warnings:** non-con, torture, angst, language, m/m   
**Summary:** Several years post-NFA, Angel investigates a series of killings. Is Spike the culprit or a victim?   
**Author's Note:** The fic is complete and I'll post daily. It has 10 chapters plus the prologue and an epilogue. Huge thanks to [](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/profile)[**sueworld2003**](http://sueworld2003.livejournal.com/)and [](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/profile)[**blondebitz**](http://blondebitz.livejournal.com/)and [](http://zoesmith.livejournal.com/profile)[**zoesmith**](http://zoesmith.livejournal.com/)for the fantastic banners!

**Here's the end of it. Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed!   
**  
[Previous chapters here](http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=whichclothes&keyword=One+of+Your+Kind&filter=all)

 

 

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**EPILOGUE**

 

The smoke curled in the warm, stale air, and the bartender carefully ignored it. You weren’t supposed to smoke in bars anymore, which Spike thought was bloody stupid. It wasn’t like many of the customers in this place were likely to get lung cancer. Hell, he wasn’t even certain that all of them even had lungs. In any case, the bartender wasn’t about to confront Spike about it. Instead, he put a fresh glass of Jack down on the bar and smiled nervously. Then a Brachen down the way called for him and he scurried away.

The big pouf was late. Spike tapped his foot impatiently. A few months ago, he couldn’t have managed to sit at a bar by himself—in fact, he’d nearly collapse in panic at the very thought—but now he could, and he’d even manage not to wince when large men passed by. They’d had to work up to it slowly, with Angel sticking close by him at first, and then giving him gradually more space. So now he’d been here alone over an hour, and the hand that held his cigarette hardly even shook.

The front door opened and Spike immediately grew alert, but it was just Sheila, her long, pale legs displayed artfully beneath a short skirt, her rather flat chest enhanced by strategic lingerie use, or maybe just plain old magics. She saw him and waved, and he waved back, but she didn’t come over. Instead she headed for a skinny runt of a man in an expensive suit. He wondered how much she charged for a bite—more than he had, when he’d whored himself?

He stubbed the cigarette out in his empty glass and immediately lit another, flicked his lighter on and off, and jiggled his knee up and down. Then the door opened again, letting in the sound of traffic hissing by, and Spike couldn’t help letting out a sigh of relief. Angel had finally arrived.

Angel was looking bloody gorgeous, he thought. Black trousers and burgundy silk shirt. Black duster all a-swirl. His teeth were flashing very white as he smiled widely. Waiting for him to arrive, Spike idly wondered whether he could convince his grandsire to pull on a pair of leather trousers of the sort Angelus had fancied.

“Hey, baby,” Angel said, and leant over for a quick kiss. He didn’t even glance around nervously to see who was watching. He’d made progress of late as well. He sat on the stool next to Spike.

“Been waiting long?” he asked.

“You’re over an hour late, Peaches. Was starting to feel a bit tempted to get to know Sheila better.”

Angel snorted. “Sheila is not your type. No, you’d go for Mirella over there.” He pointed at a tiny vamp with long dark hair and wiry muscles. She was whispering something into a female Sadecki demon’s ear.

Spike grinned and took a drag. “Nah. I’ve been fancying something a bit meatier lately,” he said, and slapped his palm lightly on Angel’s big thigh.

“Meaty, huh?” Angel moved Spike’s hand up until it was resting on his crotch. “I’ll give you something meaty, all right.”

Spike grunted out a laugh. Until recently he’d thought that jokes were Angelus’s domain entirely—that his grandsire’s soul managed to displace the sense of humor every time. But lately Angel had taken to kidding around a bit. It was disconcerting, but in a pleasant sort of way. And his wit wasn’t usually rapier sharp, but it always made Spike chuckle, if nothing else from amusement that Angel was even trying.

Spike squeezed the flesh beneath his hand and felt it become firmer beneath the cotton. “Could have been giving me this already, pet, if you hadn’t taken so long with your policeman friend.”

“Hmm,” Angel said, and took a swallow of the whiskey that had materialized as if by magic on the bar next to him. “He’s got a cop pal in Fresno who has a case he thinks is up our alley. If you’re feeling up to it.”

He said the last sentence cautiously, and Spike sighed but didn’t get angry. He knew Angel really was trying, and that it wasn’t easy for him to gauge what Spike’s reactions to things might be. “I think…perhaps we could poke around a bit,” Spike said. “’M sure Fresno is lovely this time of year.”

It was Angel’s turn to laugh. “Yeah, sure. It’s probably about 110 degrees. And no shade anywhere.”

“Hope this bloke’s beasties come out at night, then.”

“Yeah, me too.” He drained his glass. “You ready to go?”

“Now? Didn’t think there was enough dark left to make it that far.”

“There isn’t. We can go tomorrow. I had something else in mind for now.”

Spike lifted an eyebrow. “Oh? What was that, then?”

Angel stood, then grabbed Spike’s hand and pulled him to his feet, too. “I decided the Viper wasn’t the best thing to take up north. Not much room for weapons and stuff. So I bought you a present.” He tugged at Spike’s hand, a bit like an overgrown excited child. “C’mon. Come see.”

Spike didn’t need any more urging. He paused to yell at the bartender—“Put it on my tab!”—and then practically loped out through the door.

Angel dragged him down a block and then beamed proudly when Spike’s unneeded breath was taken away by surprise. It was an enormous car with huge tailfins. Double headlights protruded from a wide grille in front, and the roof curved down, low and sleek. The chrome was shining almost blindingly in the streetlights, the glossy black paint was flawless, and a crimson stripe ran the length of each long side.

“It’s a ’58 Fury,” Angel said, running a hand lovingly over the monster’s flank. “They only made about 3000 of them. The original colors were gold on beige, but I figured this was more your style. Interior’s all new leather, soft as your old duster. I had the windows necrotinted and it’s got a 350 V-8, clean and neat as new, over 300 horsepower. This sucker can _go_.”

“Sounds like true love,” Spike said, still slightly dazed.

Angel wrapped an arm around Spike and smooched him loudly on the cheek. “It is, baby, it is.”

Spike leaned into the embrace, loving the strong, solid feel of Angel against him. “It’s…it’s lovely.”

“I know it’s not a DeSoto,” Angel said with a touch of doubt in his voice.

“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Angel whooped with delight. “Gonna take me for a ride, then?”

 

Way up in the hills, high enough that the stars were sharp and bright instead of smudged with smog, Spike pulled the Fury to a stop on a side road. “That was brilliant,” he said. It was. It looked new and it drove like a dream. A really big dream with a rumbling engine that he’d pushed up to 120 mph without complaint.

“I’m glad you like it. You deserve it.” Angel put a big palm on Spike’s thigh.

“If you’re a good boy, perhaps I’ll let you drive it now and then.”

“What if I’m bad instead?” Angel said, his voice low and husky. He kneaded the denim at Spike’s crotch.

Spike swallowed. “That’ll do.”

Bench seats were nice, but Angel was rather too tall to fit comfortably across them. After they’d both stripped, and then made several less-than-successful attempts to fit together in the back—the last of which ended with Angel landing on his ample arse in the dust, and Spike in an uncontrollable fit of laughter—they climbed out of the car and Angel pushed Spike up against the hot bonnet. The warm metal felt good on Spike’s bare arse, and he wrapped his legs around Angel’s hips and pulled him in close.

“We don’t have long until dawn,” Angel said, glancing up at the sky.

“Don’t fancy going out in a blaze of glory?”

“Not anymore. You?”

“Done that once already, haven’t I? I think I’ll stick around for a bit, see what unlife has to offer.” His hands wandered over Angel’s broad back, digging in slightly here and there just to feel the muscle and bone.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Angel said into the crook of Spike’s neck.

“I expect you’ll be nearly as happy about this,” responded Spike. He took Angel’s cock in his hand, enjoying the hiss he received in response, and guided it to his entry.

“Don’t want to hurt you,” Angel said earnestly.

“Won’t. ‘M already slicked.”

Angel’s breath hitched and he pressed himself slightly inside, as if testing Spike’s promise. When he found his way suitably slippery he moaned and then chuckled. “Came prepared today, did we?”

“Haven’t come at all. Yet.” Spike grabbed Angel’s arse and pulled him in close. He groaned as Angel’s big cock stretched him, filling him wonderfully.

“It’s okay, baby?” Angel asked.

For an answer, Spike used his legs to drive Angel in deeper, all the way, until he felt Angel’s balls brushing against his skin.

Over Angel’s shoulders, the sky had turned from black to deep violet and the stars had begun to fade. All right. Time to hurry things along, then. Spike tilted his neck invitingly to the side.

Angel froze. “William?” he choked. They hadn’t done this in over a century, not like this.

“Please,” purred Spike.

Angel vamped out and, with a sound of desperate hunger, sank his fangs deeply into Spike’s neck.

The world froze. The entire universe consisted of the feeling of Angel in his neck, in his arse, of the soft skin of Angel’s belly pressing up against Spike’s cock, of the thick muscles of his bum bunched under Spike’s palms. He was caught in a moment of such exquisite pleasure that for a moment he almost thought he’d misjudged the time, that he and Angel were burning up, the essence of their beings igniting and turning to bright ashes. And he didn’t bloody care.

When he became aware of himself again he was enfolded in Angel’s arms. His stomach was cold from his own spend, his sphincter and his veins ached with emptiness at Angel’s withdrawal, and he was shivering, trembling like he had a fever. But Angel was stroking his back, soothing him, whispering Irish nonsense in his ear again.

“I think…I think you’d best drive us home,” Spike said in a slightly shaky voice.

Angel laughed. “No problem. Now I know what I gotta do to get a turn behind the wheel.”

“You keep on doing that and you’ll dust me, then you can have the car for good.”

“Wouldn’t want that. Not when I’ve got plans.”

“Yeah? What kind of plans?”

Angel whispered in Spike’s ear: “I want to get back to the hotel and get you naked again. And then I want you to give me a ride.” He caressed Spike’s suddenly interested cock to emphasize exactly what he meant.

Spike found himself unable to say a single word.

Angel gently drew him back to the side of the car and handed him his clothes. Spike pulled them on quickly, feeling the sunrise sparking at his skin. They climbed in the Fury and shut the doors, and Angel revved the engine.

Before he pulled away, though, he turned and cupped his hand in the hair at the back of Spike’s neck. The hair was still its natural color and ungelled, because Spike rather suspected that Angel preferred it that way. He didn’t much fancy the curls himself, but it was a sacrifice he was willing to make.

Angel fingered Spike’s hair and looked deeply into his eyes. “Thank you,” Angel said. “Thank you for staying with me.”

Spike smiled at him. “’M glad I’m one of yours.”

“You’re all of mine, baby.”

Tiny little embers of happiness glowed deep inside Spike. Not joy, not yet, but perhaps with time and patience that flame would grow. Spike curled his tongue behind his teeth and lifted one eyebrow. “Start steering, git. I have some driving to do.”

 

 

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